


The Alphabet Code

by LottaCharlene



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Alternate Universe - Western, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Fae & Fairies, Ficlet, Homophobia, M/M, Mating, Modeling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottaCharlene/pseuds/LottaCharlene
Summary: This is a collection of little stories about Daryl and Jesus. Every story is inspired by a letter of the alphabet and can be set in the TWD-universe or be an AU. I'll add more tags with more stories.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Jesus
Comments: 42
Kudos: 145





	1. A for Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> A little party never killed nobody - but it also isn't ideal for keeping secrets ...

The party was in full swing. Rick didn’t remember seeing his people this relaxed in a long time. The carefree laughter that washed over Alexandria was a blessing. 

The first trade fair under King Ezekiel still had been eyed with suspicion, but now, almost three years and several fairs later, it was a highlight for everyone to come together, meet again and talk with some delicious food between their teeth and some rare alcohol past their throats.

He watched in amusement as Tara, Rosita and Eugene started singing with compassion and heart ache, giving a very good impression of some generic pop band that used to rule the charts before the dead had lifted their heads.

“It’s a sight, isn’t it?”

Rick turned his head to see Jesus less than gracefully slump down beside him on the old couch. He snorted. “Well, music has definitely been better.”

Jesus hummed, sipping at a cup. His cheeks were rosy and his hair was slipping from its formerly neat bun at the neck. Rick couldn’t suppress a grin. It wasn’t very often that you had the chance to see that ironclad mask of calm composure slip off Jesus and reveal the human underneath.

Rosita and Tara had switched to another song, chanting it loudly with suddenly half of the people on the porch. _“I’m doing this tonight, you’re probably gonna start a fight. I know this can’t be right. Hey, baby, come on, I loved you endlessly, when you weren’t there for me!”_ Tara grabbed Daryl, who walked past them, pressing an undoubtedly wet smooch on his cheek.

“God, I feel so old. I don’t even know that song and it’s been years that something like charts even existed,” chuckled Rick, leaning back against the cushions.

Jesus hummed again.

“You okay?” Rick asked, eying Jesus, who stared blankly ahead.

“Yeah.” Silence, and then: “You know, what I really miss sometimes?”

Okay, this was a totally new level of drunk for Jesus. The dreamy way he stared ahead was something that had Rick wishing for a camera with sudden intensity. Rick grinned into his own cup. “What is that?”

“Dancing!”

“Dancing? But you could dance at any time. Well, when Tara and Rosita decide to redeem us of that horrible shouting they call singing.”

“No, I mean, going out, dancing in a club, you know? I wouldn’t sit here staring, you know? I would be with friends, getting shitfaced and in the safety of the deafening music and flashing lights I would make my way over to the guy and just start dancing with him. No awkward conversations, not the whole family staring and snickering and giving you thumps up.” He sighed.

Rick furrowed his brows. “Sorry, but – what?”

Jesus snuggled back into the cushions, the dreamy expression still on his face. “He’s so hot, you know? I mean, he tries to hide it under a lot of dark looks and even more grunts, but he’s hot. In a club, I would definitely make a pass at him. Buy him a drink. Dance with him, not like swaying to some tearjerker, but, you know, _dirty_. Press myself all over his front. Or back, I don’t mind. Get those goddamn lips on mine.”

Jesus ran a hand through his hair, tangling it up even more. Rick stared at him. He had the bad feeling that Jesus didn’t just talk about a theoretical scenario. It sounded suspiciously more like a dream he wished to come true. With someone that was actually real. His head snapped back to the crowd, chanting and laughing in front of the house.

Aaron giggled with Rosita, who had left Tara to the singing with Eugene and Enid. There were people both from Hilltop and the Kingdom that Rick didn’t know too well, but he was almost certain that Jesus wouldn’t moon over one of them. If he feared the intervention of their families than it had to be someone they all knew and liked well enough. So, most likely Aaron, then. Aaron would make sense. He was gay as well and since Eric’s death, single.

“Well, maybe just go over to him. Take a leap of faith.” Rick couldn’t withstand that pun, but unfortunately, Jesus didn’t seem to notice.

Jesus had snapped around and he stared with big eyes at Rick. “Really? You sure? I mean … you would be okay with that?”

“What, why not? Try your luck! Worst thing that could happen is that he tells you no.”

Jesus let out a huff that might be a disbelieving laugh. “Tell me no? No! Definitely not! He would probably punch me straight in the face.”

“Come on, Jesus. You know Aaron for how long now? He wouldn’t do that!”

“Why Aaron? Is he – are they together?”

“What? No! What? Who?” Rick shook his head, trying to understand where he had made the wrong turn on that drive.

Jesus stared at him. “Daryl!”

Rick almost spat the beer in Jesus’ face as he tried not to choke on it. “Daryl?”, he wheezed.

Jesus didn’t seem too bothered by Rick’s outburst. He turned back with a sigh, staring ahead again. This time, Rick followed his gaze and sure enough spotted Daryl, who laughed openly at a drunk Glenn.

“God,” groaned Jesus beside him. “This should be forbidden. He can’t walk around like that! He can’t rip off those sleeves and leave the rest of that shirt on! I just want to get rid of it. I’m pretty sure _that_ would be a sight.”

Rick stood abruptly. He couldn’t stay and listen to Jesus licking mentally over Daryl’s pecs or whatever. He didn’t want to know that. “You know what? You’re right, dancing with Daryl like this would be a terrible idea.”

Jesus let out a heartbroken sound and crumbled into himself. Rick sighed in defeat.

“But, you know, he still might appreciate that drink.”

With that, he excused himself, grabbing a protesting Glenn around the shoulders and left that particular corner of Alexandria.

If Jesus looked embarrassed as hell the next morning, barely able to look him into the eyes, well, that wasn’t his problem. But when Daryl did the same, only that on top of looking miserable and hungover he also spotted a suspicious bruise on his neck, that might be indeed his.


	2. B for Bikes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul has definitely not expected this when he has agreed to take this job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern setting AU, might be a bit OOC because of that

Paul checks his camera, going over the contents of his backpack to make sure he has everything he needs. The set and the bigger equipment for the shoot are thankfully provided by the client, so Paul doesn’t need to struggle with unhandy packages for once.

He opens the car door and gets out. The sun is shining and the air is mild, a perfect day for a shoot outdoors. The location is great, he has to admit. Some old factory building, half rotten and slightly overgrown by plants, but it somehow still has charm. 

“Mr. Rovia?” A woman walks briskly over to him with an outstretched hand.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Andrea, we talked on the phone.”

“Oh, yeah, nice to meet you! You can call me Jesus, by the way. No one calls me Mr. Rovia.” He grins at her as he walks over to the setup. The bikes he is here to photograph today are shining in the sun. Paul needs all his control not to drool all over them. It’s the client’s new models, not even on the market yet, all sleek and badass looking things in black or with parts in red, turquoise or chrome. There are helmets as well as leathers lying on a table.

“Alright, so how do you wanna do this?”, he asks Andrea as soon as he can tear his eyes away from the beauties lining the wall.

Andrea hands him a detailed plan and goes over every shoot they wish to take. Paul makes some suggestions and additions, to which Andrea agrees easily. They are so engrossed that Paul totally misses the preparation for the first shoot, so when he turns around, he can’t hide his surprise.

There aren’t half-naked women in thin robes waiting to climb on top of the bikes. There is only one model, and he definitely is male. He already wears black leathers, that fit like a second skin, and a black helmet with an equally black visor, tugging on black leather gloves before he swings his leg over the first bike.

God, this is a nightmare. Girls lounging lasciviously on bikes, wearing bikinis and fake grease stains? Paul can handle them in thousands. But this guy? The way his thighs hug the mean looking machine? The broad shoulders under that gear, which just looks like a safety wrapping for the Ghost Rider? Paul has to swallow.

 _Keep it cool, you’re on a job,_ he tries to tell himself. Somehow, he manages through the first couple of takes and gradually relaxes. The guy has a maddeningly astonishing build, but he is still faceless, so it’s kind of easy to ignore the general attractiveness of the guy.

“Alright, change of clothes!”, calls Andrea. “Daryl, get over to Beth, we’ll do the second outfit.”

The guy glides from the bike and Paul has never seen anything sexier in his life. Then the guy pulls off his helmet and ruffles his sweaty hair. It is dark and cut raggedly, and on anyone else this just would have looked like a blind hairdresser had made guesses on how to use a pair of scissors. On this guy, it looks forbidden attractive. In a rough way. Rough attraction. Paul isn’t even sure something like that exists.

Paul fiddles with his camera and tries to look like he has everything under control while the model, Daryl, walks over to the flimsy curtain and vanishes behind with a blonde girl.

When he comes back out, Paul nearly drops his camera. Daryl wears sturdy work boots, dark blue jeans and a simple white t-shirt that shows way too much of some very impressive upper arms. The worst thing is, he comes directly over to Paul.

“Hey, sorry, needed to change first, was boilin’ hot in that gear. ‘m Daryl.”

Paul shakes the offered hand on autopilot. Daryl has narrow eyes and in the sun it’s hard to tell their color, but the goatee and the beauty mark on his upper lip have him hooked either way. “Hi. Uhm, Paul. Paul Jesus. Rovia.” He feels how his lips stretch in an awkward excuse of a smile and he wants to hit his head against the thick brick walls of the factory.

Daryl throws him a look with a raised eyebrow and the left corner of his mouth tugs upward. _Great, the model’s laughing at me,_ Paul thinks and clears his throat in the vain attempt to get his dignity back.

Andrea instructs Daryl to take a seat on the purely black bike and turns around to Paul. “Just do whatever feels right, okay? You can do some cool poses, but please if you feel like it, you can make it sexy. The more variety the better.”

Paul just nods and walks over with legs made of wood. Daryl just sits there, relaxed, and Paul has never felt so out of his element before. To make sure he doesn’t accidentally fall over, he crouches down to take the shot from that angle. Daryl doesn’t look at him, just gazes out as if thinking and the wind picks up in that moment, ruffling Daryl’s hair. It’s perfect in its coincidence. 

Then Daryl looks down and smiles a small, private smile directly at Paul and everything inside him turns to jelly. Paul knows Daryl only works with the camera, doesn’t look at him, but he still can’t shake it.

He can’t shake it for the rest of the shoot. Not when Daryl looks over his shoulder, throwing him a smirk. Not when Daryl leans on the bike, looking up at Paul on the ladder with one raised eyebrow. Not when Daryl changes again, wearing this time a ratty looking shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a leather vest with angel wings on the back. Not when Daryl checks the engine, grease stains still fake, but looking much more realistic on his sweaty skin, with his tongue peeking out in concentration.

When the sun sets towards the horizon and Andrea calls it a day, Paul feels like he is ready to drop dead and never wake up again. He has to leave or his heart will just give up. He scrambles around, gathering his equipment, when he hears boots crunch on the gravel. He almost doesn’t dare to look up.

“Ya already leavin’ us?”

The unexpected Georgia accent had been a shock and it still does naughty things for Paul’s poor heart. He still firmly tries to shut down his imagination. At least as long as he isn’t alone, under covers and can take care of his very stubborn semi-hard on in private. “Well, yeah, want to get working on the photos.”

Daryl hums. “Hope they’re worth somethin’.”

“Oh, I’m sure!”, blurts Paul. Shit, he doesn’t want to say that. He looks up with slight panic. Daryl stands close to him and just as their eyes meet, Daryl lifts the water bottle in his hand and takes a deep gulp. Paul stares at his throat.

“Alright then. Until Wednesday, I guess?”

Paul stares at him. Wednesday?

“The shoot for the bikes in motion?” Daryl throws him an amused glance.

Oh. Right. Paul scratches at his jaw. “You’ll do those, too?”

“Yeah. Problem?”

Hell, yes. Paul can’t survive another day like this. “No! Not at all!”

“Alright.” Daryl eyes him and scrapes with his boot over the concrete. He then drops his head and takes a deep breath, fishing a piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Just in case ya wanna practice a bit beforehand.” He stuffs the paper into Paul’s sweaty hand and walks backwards, biting his thump.

Paul hastily opens the paper. A number is scrawled across it, signed with D. Dixon. He looks up again, catching Daryl’s eyes. A tingling feeling spreads down his spine and he can’t help but smile stupidly at that drop-dead gorgeous man, who is actually _unsure_ if Paul will take this the right way. At least, he hopes it is meant like this.

But then Daryl lifts his chin and straightens his back and a smile answers Paul’s. He is ready to melt or swoon or both as Daryl winks at him, as he turns around, trotting over to Beth, who calls for Daryl to hurry the hell up, she has to meet Noah in under one hour. Paul shamelessly checks out Daryl’s ass that is still so nicely highlighted with the oily red rag from the photoshoot dangling from the back pocket.

God, he sure as hell will call that number.


	3. C for Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Paul return from a run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the new rating!

Daryl stares out of the window as Paul drives the road back to Hilltop. Their car is full to the brim with things they found, almost all the things on their list and a little bit more, and it should put Daryl in a good mood. They need these things and bringing them back will help with Maggie’s plan of planting certain vegetables and herbs, will ensure that the residents of Hilltop won’t run out of clothes, detergent and toothpaste, will put a smile on the kids’ faces when they find the toys in the largest box.

But he can’t help and feel moody. Not exactly moody, not when Paul is sitting directly at his left in the driver’s seat, but a bit sad and sorry for himself. 

He enjoyed having Paul for himself during the day. Back at Hilltop, they won’t have a quiet minute for themselves. Paul will spent the days with Maggie and Tara making decisions for Hilltop, and the nights sharing watch duty with the others. Maybe their schedules will overlap on that, but even if so, watch duty is hardly the time to relax and fool around. 

Daryl will spent his days with the repair works of the trailers and the new cabins, out hunting or teaching others how to shoot a bow. At night, he will take the couch in Paul’s old trailer he now shares with Frank and his brother Steve, while Paul sleeps in Barrington House, in the same room as Tara and next to Maggie and little Hershel.

They will be on their toes again, busy with everything and helping everyone, who asks them.

It will be back to stolen kisses in the barn or in the dusk, between washing away the day’s grime and eating dinner. Daryl doesn’t mind all the work. But sometimes he just wishes selfishly to have Paul to himself for a second.

He watches as trees and rusty road signs roll by the window. Then he sits up straighter. Paul has turned off the road and as far as Daryl knows, the way he drives down now leads nowhere but to a dead end.

“Uhm, Paul, where yer goin’?”

Paul’s grip on the steering wheel is tight and his mouth is a determined line.

“Paul?”

He eventually stops the car, but still doesn’t answer Daryl’s question. “Get out,” he says instead.

Dread suddenly pools in Daryl’s stomach. Whatever it is that Paul is about to do, it won’t be something good. He probably is going to tell Daryl off. That this thing between them is silly and fruitless and Paul is tired of it. Of Daryl.

Daryl gets out, feeling like a fool. He should have talked to Paul in the car. He knows he talks not enough for a relationship to work, because it is still strange for him to voice his wants and thoughts on such a matter. He should have made Paul laugh and enjoy himself instead of sitting broodingly in the car.

Paul pulls the coat off and throws it inside on the driver seat. His gloves follow, then his belts with the knives.

Daryl watches silently the unusual proceedings. He tries to get a read of Paul, but other than that his movements are jerky, which means he is upset or distressed about something Daryl has absolutely no clue about what is going on. Or how he fucked up. Or what.

“Come over and get in the back.”

Daryl silently follows Paul’s order, opens the back door and climbs inside the car. The back is stuffed with blankets and some boxes full of clothes, which Daryl pushes over to the other side of the back seat. Paul rummages in the pockets of his coat, then finally throwing the front door shut and coming over.

“Paul, look, whatever it is –“ Daryl doesn’t get further, because suddenly his lap is full of Paul, who slams the door shut, cramping them inside the car once again.

“Shut up,” he whispers, and then his lips are on Daryl. 

For a moment, Daryl is too stunned to move. This is not like the kisses they usually share, which are quick and seldom linger longer than a peck. Once or twice Paul had kissed Daryl with more intensity, open-mouthed and messy, but they always stopped before it got somewhere. Either because someone came calling for them or because there simply was no time for more.

Now, though, Daryl knows that Paul held back. _So fucking much._ Paul peppers his face with kisses and nibs at his jaw. Daryl still tries to get on board with the speed of Paul’s mouth, when Paul leans eventually back, staring at Daryl with a heaving chest and red splotches on his cheeks.

“Sorry, I … I just wanted … before we get back again … never mind, stupid move,” Paul rambles and reaches for the door handle. 

Daryl’s brain finally unfreezes and he buries his hand in Paul’s shirt and yanks him forward. Their mouths crash together with their teeth clinking and their noses bumping against each other, but Paul doesn’t care. He groans into Daryl’s mouth and then tilts his head and suddenly they are properly kissing like no one has ever kissed Daryl before. He gets hard in embarrassing record time, but Paul doesn’t seem to mind. He just pushes his tongue between Daryl’s lips and grinds down.

Daryl’s moan is muffled by Paul. The hand he still has in Paul’s shirt moves on its own to Paul’s exposed neck, pushing his honey golden hair back and grabbing Paul’s head to pull him even closer. They grunt and move together and Daryl’s brain has shut itself down. If it hadn’t, Daryl would debate with himself whether or not Paul would like his hand on his skin. As it is, he simply pushes the fabric of the shirt away, as his hand sneaks under it and roams the expanse that is Paul’s back.

Paul sighs, jerking his hips forward and pressing his own hard cock in Daryl’s stomach. “Fuck,” he murmurs, gazing down. His hands fly to Daryl’ shirt. “Can I? Oh please, please, can I, Daryl?”

Daryl nods, not caring what he actually agrees to. He only can think of pressing his lips against Paul’s pulse point and suck a mark in the skin there. Paul exhales shakily and tugs roughly at the buttons on Daryl’s front, prying the shirt open impatiently. His hands grab Daryl’s waist, then his fingers trail over his stomach muscles and up over his pecs.

Daryl startles and accidentally bites into Paul’s chin as his nimble fingers catch a nipple and pinch it. Paul’s mouth drops back on Daryl’s and this time Daryl isn’t shy about pushing his tongue against Paul’s. He has never been this turned on in his life. Just having Paul in his lap nearly does it for him. But the way he touches Daryl? It is almost too much.

He heaves and stares at Paul, whose hair is wild. The red blotches have traveled down from Paul’s cheeks to neck and vanish under the collar of his shirt. Daryl wants to see them, wants to know how far down they go. His fingers aren’t nearly as deft and he gives up after the first attempt at the top button. He grabs the fabric and just pulls it open. 

A few buttons ding against the metal of the car, but Daryl has only eyes for Paul, who looks shocked at first and then lets out a hissed: “Fuck, Daryl.” Daryl doesn’t really want to apologize for his rude behavior, because now he fucking sees that Paul’s blush travels all the way down to his chest, but he doesn’t want Paul to be mad at him either.

“Sorry, just seemed more effective.”

“Don’t mind,” whispers Paul into his ear. It sends shivers down Daryl’s spine. “It’s hot. I like it, you being rough. Makes me so hard, knowing that you want me this bad.”

Daryl’s mouth falls open at these words. He feels himself blush, because Paul is dirty talking to him and that only happens in porn and not to Daryl in person.

“I want you so bad, Daryl,” whispers Paul, not seeming to care that Daryl’s heart is working overtime. He tugs Daryl’s belt open.

“Want to see you. Want to have you in my mouth.”

The zipper goes down and Daryl can only watch helplessly as Paul pushes down the boxers with the fraying seam and pulls his cock free. Paul stares at it, almost fascinated, and licks his lips. Then he bends down, almost splitting himself in half as he presses his lips to the crown of Daryl’s cock.

A full-body shudder runs through Daryl and he finally wakes from his stupor. “Paul!”

Paul snaps up, nearly hitting Daryl’s chin with the back of his head. They stare at each other and Daryl can’t believe it is because of him that Paul’s eyes look so heated and that his mouth is so swollen from kissing Daryl. From kissing Daryl’s cock.

He reaches for Paul’s pants and undoes the button and the fly. Paul watches, not moving to stop him. Daryl groans when Paul’s cock slips free. He has seen other guys’s junk of course, even up close and stiff like an exclamation mark. But seeing Paul like this makes him feel hot.

He leans forward and kisses the hollow between Paul’s collarbones, licks away the sweat pooling there. Paul grabs his head then, arching into Daryl’s kiss and rubbing their dicks together with the movement. Daryl groans into Paul’s neck, who moans shamelessly into Daryl’s hair.

Daryl wants to repeat the motion and rolls his hips, but Paul fumbles with something on the seat beside him. Daryl kisses and licks up his neck to get him back on track with the absolutely amazing things they are doing.

Paul shivers and then turns his head, capturing Daryl’s mouth once again. Which turns out is a good thing, because the next Daryl does is cursing into Paul’s mouth. A warm hand, smooth with something, wraps around his cock, pumping up and down and Daryl can’t keep up with the kissing. Instead he grabs Paul by the waist and hauls him closer. The hand on his cock falters and Daryl whines. Then the hand is back, with more smoothing lube, wrapping not only around Daryl this time, but pressing Paul’s cock into the fist as well. Daryl clutches at Paul’s shoulders as he fucks mindlessly into it. He fumbles a hand between them, closing it around both of them, pressing Paul’s hand even tighter together.

“Oh fuck, Daryl,” moans Paul, their foreheads pressed together. “Feel so good, want to fuck me next time, want to have you in me.”

Daryl groans. “Ya have a dirty mouth, Paul. Don’t stop talkin’.”

“Want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk the next day. Want to feel you hours later.”

“God, Paul!” His hips snap forward with a shudder and then the come shoots out of him, high enough that it splashes against their chins. Paul leans forward, licking it off Daryl, biting down on Daryl’s lips and then comes all over them, too.

They slump together, catching their breaths. Daryl smooths Paul’s hair until he can move enough to grab a shirt out of a box next to him and dab it down their chests. 

“What a waste of a shirt,” Paul smirks, but not moving a finger to stop Daryl.

“’s all yer fault.”

“That so? I recall having two interested cocks in my hand.”

Daryl swats him with the spoiled shirt. “Was yer dirty mouth.”

Paul sits back up, stretching as good as possible caught between Daryl, the front seat and the roof of the car. He smirks: “You liked it.”

“That wasn’t the question.” Daryl knows his ears are red, but he doesn’t look away from Paul.

Paul laughs, leaning close again with sparkling eyes. “No, it certainly wasn’t.” They kiss lazily until Daryl’s bones protest the cramped position. They scramble back to the front of the car, Paul wearing a new shirt under his coat. They smirk at each other for the rest of the way, Daryl’s eyes wandering down to the red mark on Paul’s neck.

They draw some weird looks, when they get back, but they both couldn’t be bothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has left kudos and comments on my silly little stories! <3


	4. D for Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the devil walks amongst us disguised as a fair citizen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! If you are sensitive for homophobic behavior and violence, maybe do not read this one. It has not a happy ending.  
> Also, I know shit about horses or the famous wild, wild west.

Thick heavy clouds hung in the sky the first time Daryl and Rick rode out to the little farmhouse just outside the town limit. It looked old and worn, but the dog in the front yard was well-fed and licked Daryl’s face with a friendly wag of its tail as he slid off his horse.

“Ya really think Old Tommy’s right?”, Daryl asked as he patted the back of the dog.

Rick adjusted his hat and the vest with the shining Sheriff’s star on his breast as he glanced around the yard. “You mean if I believe the man, who lives here, is some sort of witch, able to conjure up hailstorms and droughts, and jinx the cattle so it’s walking into the canyon? No. That’s bullshit.”

Rick walked over to the farmhouse with its open door and Daryl followed half a step behind. Yeah, Daryl too figured that was a load of crap. “Ya know what I mean”, he said in a low voice.

Rick threw him a quick glance from under the brim of his hat. “Let’s find out, shall we, Deputy?”

They found the man behind his house, where he watched a horse race itself to tiredness in a wide circle around the man, who held a long rope in his hands. His hat lay in the dust behind him, but the man didn’t seem to care. He only had eyes for the horse that was bucking and thrashing. Rick stopped without alerting the man to their presence, watching as the horse calmed down slowly. It was then that Daryl heard the soft murmur.

Shivers went down his spine. Maybe Old Tommy was right and this man was a witcher after all. Maybe that man could tell the cattle to walk into the canyon to get lost and stumble into the soaring Devil’s Creek.

Rick stepped closer to the fence, calling out to the man: “Mister Rovia?”

The horse darted away again with a snort and the man cursed softly, before turning around. “How can I help you, Sheriff?”

The moment the man locked his crystal blue eyes with Rick and then for even longer, with Daryl, he didn’t just thought that Mr. Rovia was a witcher. He knew.

+++

The next time Daryl visited the little beaten-down farmhouse, he was alone. He didn’t even want to stop there, but his horse was limping heavily. He had to look that hoof over or he would risk having a lame horse. He actually liked the black mare quite a bit and actually gave a shit if she was injured. The town was too far away.

When he walked into the front yard leading his mare with the rein, the dog shot up from its place inside the house and came dancing and panting towards Daryl as if they were old friends. “Hey, bud”, Daryl said as he patted the dog. “Where’s your master?”

The dog barked once, then trotted over to the paddocks behind the house. Daryl followed with his horse behind him and dread in his stomach. Paul Rovia stood on that patch of fenced sand again, working with the same horse as before again. But this time, the horse wasn’t skittish or trying to get away. It stood calmly beside Mr. Rovia and allowed a blanket to be put on its back without so much as a shake of its head and a grumbling neigh.

The dog barked again and Mr. Rovia looked up, his gaze flitting from his dog up to Daryl and his horse. He stilled, then quickly tied the horse to the fence and jumped over the highest board. “What happened?”

“Dunno. She’s been limping since the last two miles.”

Rovia came over, watching the mare with his unnatural intense eyes as if he wanted to look underneath its skin. The hair at Daryl’s neck rose in alarm.

“Can you hold her still?”

Daryl couldn’t help but watch fascinated as Mr. Rovia gently stroked down the mare’s flanks, fingers barely touching her fur. He hummed softly as his hand traveled down the leg she had been trying to rest. Then he grabbed her fetlock, pulled her leg off the ground, bent and pushed it forcefully until something cracked horribly loud. The mare shied and kicked with her front legs.

“What the fuck ya think yer doin’?” Daryl hissed, ducking under a hoof that swung close to his head.

“She’s alright. Just dislocated her knee.” Rovia huffed, pushing his long hair out of his eyes. “I popped it right back in.”

Daryl glanced at his mare that suddenly stood like the most well-behaved horse between them, checking the ground for some grass as if nothing had happened at all.

“She needs to rest, though. At least for the rest of the day, before you take her back to town. I would offer you another one, but unfortunately, my only other horse is still learning to tolerate a saddle.” Rovia’s grin that he threw Daryl over the back of his mare, was broad and uncaring for the dark look Daryl gave back. “You can stay the night, if you want.”

That man was a witcher for sure. Daryl just had seen the proof of it himself.

And eyes like that, shifting between blue and green, that just weren’t natural.

+++

The next time, Daryl saw Rovia again, was in town. The people made a wide berth around him as though he carried something catching. Mrs. Roderick slammed the door of Roderick’s Hardware Store into the man’s face, turning the sign from Open to Close although it was only two in the afternoon. The men lingering outside the saloon spat at his feet. Ms. Hamilton crossed herself and then the children as she led them from the school back to the town’s hall. 

Nevertheless, as their paths crossed, Daryl nodded a barely visible greeting, and Rovia tipped the brim of his hat just as subtly.

His witcher-eyes twinkled in the deep shadows underneath the brim.

Daryl didn’t look back as Father Richard, who just stumbled out of Lady Lienna’s, started preaching loudly about the sins of men at the sight of Rovia.

He honestly didn’t give a shit that Rovia was a witcher. His horse was healthy as a foal.

+++

“Stop that Mr. Rovia-shit. Name’s Paul.”

Daryl glanced up from the shattered window. “Alright. Paul. Any idea who did this?”

Paul picked up a broom and started brushing the shards into a little pile. He shrugged: “Probably some boys. Really, it’s alright, Deputy.”

Daryl snorted as he eyed the red paint already dried in the sun. The writing was sluggish, but he still could read the words. _Devil’s whore._

“That happens often?”

“Sometimes.”

“And ya don’t want me to find those boys?”

“No, Deputy, thanks.”

Daryl watched Paul brushing the broken glass into a bucket, calm and serene on the outside. But Daryl could feel the anger boil just below Paul’s mask of friendliness.

“Alright.” He turned around and swung himself back into the saddle. 

“Thanks for stopping by, Deputy. Not many would’ve cared.” Paul glanced up to him, those eyes twinkling again, but his smile was small and private.

“It’s Daryl.”

The smile bloomed into a smirk. “Alright. Daryl. Thank you.”

Daryl turned his mare around with a grunt, clicking his tongue to get her into a trot. Rick was expecting him back by now. They needed to meet with the mayor in under half an hour.

He felt Paul’s eyes burning into his back all the way it took him to get back on the road into town. It tingled and tugged at his insides.

Paul Rovia wasn’t only able to bewitch the animals. No, he had also bewitched Daryl, because all he could think about were those blue-green eyes and that dangerous smile.

+++

It became a habit that Daryl stopped by Paul’s farmhouse on his way back into or just out of town. Just to make sure that the windows were still intact and the walls bare of any paint.

If it happened that every time Paul was there to talk to him for a bit, that was purely coincidence.

+++

Their little talks became actual conversation. First, about the horse that now carried Paul patiently across his land. Then about how Paul had learned his magic that wasn’t magic after all. It was just knowing the body of a horse or even a man inside out. Literally. Daryl had been appalled at first, but Paul tried to prove it to him that it even had a scientific name. Anatomy.

Later, they talked about their families. How they got here. Everything.

And all the time, those eyes haunted Daryl day and night and he could only find peace if he could look directly into them.

Then the storm happened and everything changed again.

Daryl had been on his round through the backcountry as the sky opened its gates and he was drenched to the bone in minutes. Paul’s house was the closest and he and his mare raced towards the barn without seeing anything in the rain. Paul had been there, rubbing his shivering horse down with hay, handing a blanket to Daryl, who shivered just as bad.

The thunder roared in Daryl’s ears as Paul stared at him. Then he kissed Daryl. On the mouth.

Daryl jolted back and Paul looked at him with sheer terror in his eyes as though Daryl would pull his colt and put a bullet between his eyes. Daryl pulled the blanket around him tighter and scrubbed at his wet hair.

As if he would fucking kill someone over a dumb kiss.

+++

When the winds picked up in fall and the town was too busy with the harvest and the oncoming winter to gossip, Daryl finally broke down. 

He didn’t know what Paul had done to him or under which spell he lived, but he didn’t care anymore. He pressed Paul against the nearest beam in the barn and kissed him sound on the mouth. Just like Paul had done during that storm. Ever since, he had looked at Daryl with that glint in his eyes, but never done it again.

But Daryl longed for him to do it.

He hadn’t thought about much else ever since.

So when Paul tried to teach him the anatomy of his mare, patiently explaining bits and pieces, where they ran inside his horse, and for what purpose, Daryl grabbed his chin and pressed his lips to Paul’s.

Paul stared back with wide eyes, frozen, until a slow smile spread over his face. He turned around and pointed out a tendon that he called flexor as if nothing was amiss. 

But he threw Daryl a look and a smile and stood way too close as Daryl stepped forward to feel the tendons with his fingers.

Daryl had never heard of any witch that turned your insides into something hot and bubbly, but he didn’t care. It felt good. Having Paul look at him like that felt right.

+++

Daryl only came home to his room in Rick’s house if he absolutely had to. The rest of the time, he was at Paul’s little farmhouse, that was cold and drafty. But the bed was so much warmer.

Daryl had lain with enough women to know that he didn’t like the smell after sex, something sour and bitter in the air. The bodies that were too soft during the act were even more unbearably directly after. 

But Paul was different. 

Daryl couldn’t get enough of him. 

Of his sigh and moans. Of his laughter and curses. Of his kisses and gentle hands.

“Daryl, Daryl, please …”, sighed Paul into the pillow so softly that Daryl barely heard him. But he wanted to. Wanted to hear everything Paul said to him.

He pulled out of him, although his member was aching for release and he couldn’t see straight ahead. Paul whined under him and turned his head with furrowed brows. “What’s wrong? Did I -?”

“No, never”, Daryl whispered. Then he gently pulled at Paul’s hips, until he turned around and lay on his back. Daryl had always wondered if it was really the only way they could sleep with each other, doing it from behind as though they were animals. Why he couldn’t love Paul the way a man was supposed to lie with a woman in bed. 

He pushed Paul’s legs apart until Paul wrapped them around his waist. Then he sunk inside that heat again. Paul moaned and buried his hands in Daryl’s hair as they kissed, wet and open-mouthed, for the first time being able to as they loved each other. 

Daryl wondered why it had taken them so long to figure it out that there wasn’t anything different from being with a woman. Only that it was them. That it was Paul kissing him breathless and that he moaned deeply Daryl’s name when he came. 

Daryl wasn’t far behind, snapping his hips with inelegant thrusts that let Paul sigh and kiss him even deeper until the world burst into white stars.

They lay tangled together in bed, kissing and caressing each other and Daryl didn’t care if Paul was a witcher. He was with him and that was all there mattered.

+++

“Daryl! Run!” Rick tried to punch Mr. Smith on his jaw, but the spade Mr. Evermore swung at his head didn’t miss and Rick crumbled to the ground with blood spilling into his eyes.

Daryl watched as Mr. Smith sprung forward and wrestled Rick’s own cuffs from his belt and putting it around his wrists. Then the boot of Mr. Roderick caught him on the forehead and his head flew back. Someone was on his back, pressing him to the floor, before yanking him up. A fist landed in his stomach and another on his nose.

Daryl heard the crack as it broke.

“Come on, we’ll get you to your little lady!”, someone whispered in his ear.

“Daryl!”, yelled Rick, but it sounded muffled.

Hands dragged him out of the Sheriff’s office and onto the muddy street. Daryl could barely see, let alone walk. They had beaten and kicked at him without any preamble and he was sure someone had hit him on the head with a hammer.

“Shame on you!” Spit landed in his face.

“And we called you our Deputy!”

“Rot in hell!”

A moldy cabbage hit him at the temple. An egg followed soon after.

“Get that off him! He doesn’t need it when he wants to lay with his lady!”

Someone grabbed the collar of his shirt and ripped it right open. Cut the belt and his trousers open. They pressed him down into the mud as they stripped him off his clothes and boots, not caring that Daryl couldn’t breathe, that the air in his lungs turned into mud and that his own blood slowly chocked him.

When they pulled him back up, his vision was filled with dancing black dots. Cold water hit him in the face and made him gasp. He blinked furiously against the drops on his lashes. That was when he saw it. In the center of the town, just where Mrs. Macklemore sold her knitted blankets on any other day, stood a platform. Wood was piled high around a pole. Tied to that pole was Paul, bloodied and bruised, with cuts down his naked chest, but his eyes were still blue and green as they locked onto Daryl.

“No”, he whispered, as the people pulled him forward. “No! Paul!”

He tried to fight them off, tried to get to Paul, cut him loose, push him down that platform. Away from this people and their hatred. Away from their cruel knifes and cries for vengeance of their sin.

But the hands on his arms were too many and they dragged him up merciless.

“Lie with your whore, devil!” 

Daryl turned his head and spat that fucking coward right into his eyes. He was shoved forward until he fell against Paul’s naked body, chest to chest, hands tied to his back, but ropes were slung around them, sealing them together in a mock display of intimacy.

“The sin and the devil walk among us, my children!”, shouted Father Richard, but Daryl had only eyes for Paul right before him.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Paul”, he whispered.

“Shhh, don’t, Daryl. You didn’t start that witch-hunt.” Paul smiled. Under all that crusted blood on his face and the split eyebrow, his smile was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I should’ve protected ya.”

“Daryl, don’t. That was bound to happen. And I’m glad that it did happen after I got you for a whole winter.”

“Got me even longer than that. Probably got me right from the beginning.”

Paul’s smile widened. His white teeth almost glowed in his dirty face.

“Therefore we must go against everything that is unnatural, because it is a blasphemy to our God, the Lord and savior! We must clean our town of the sin, smoke the evil out, so there is room again for all the good and sincere people that live here!”

The crowd shouted their approval.

Someone stepped forward with a torch.

“I love you, Daryl.” 

Daryl’s heart wanted to burst from his chest as the first tendrils of smoke rose around them. He pressed his forehead against Paul, wishing desperately to cup his head in his hands, stroke his long and now grimy hair one more time. “Love ya, too, Paul.”

Heat cracked around them as the fire rose. It roared and hissed, drowning the angry shouts of the people around them. Daryl leaned in, kissing Paul and not stopping, even as the smoke choked him and the fire licked at his skin. 

He didn’t felt a thing except for Paul’s lips right under his.

Paul was a witcher. Maybe the devil even. But so was Daryl.


	5. E for Evergreen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misteltoes are an amazing boost for confidence. And alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late for a christmas-y story, I know ... 
> 
> I'm tinkering around with different writing stiles, so don't be confused. This is my first attempt at a first person POV.

With that many people around it was just a question of time when the air would become hot and stifling, but I didn’t really notice until the door opened for a second and a gust of cold wind blew inside.

Tara snickered with Sasha about something that I still couldn’t understand, even though they both had told me already twice over the noise of several conversations around us. I guess the eggnog in their hands had something to do with their giggling fit. 

Since neither Tara nor Sasha seemed to care about my input very much, I decided that some more food was my next best friend. The tables had been laden when we officially started the party a couple of hours ago, but I held back. The kids should stuff themselves full, before I made a go for it. 

As I rose and weaved through the crowd, I was highly aware of all the red faces around me. The alcohol flowed generously, it seemed, and nowadays everyone was a lightweight. My own legs felt a bit unstable and my head was a blissful haze of giddiness. Being like this was bad. Something could happen at any time and then what? I didn’t want to be too clumsy from too much eggnog to defend us. Maybe some fresh air would help. Besides, my back felt disgustingly sweaty in this sticky heat. I could feel my shirt cling uncomfortably to my skin. And I had thought about wearing that thick sweater Maggie had brought me!

I pushed the doors of Barrington House open and stepped outside. It was _cold_. Biting frost drifted through the air and dusted everything with a thin, white cover of ice. Snow would have been nice, not only for our improvised Christmas, but also as some protection against the cold for the plants. Maggie already feared that we had to re-plant a lot more than last winter come spring.

But right now, the biting air was a blessing against my hot skin. I took a deep breath and released a foggy cloud that drifted through the air. I watched as it slowly devolved into the night.

“Already needin’ a break from the carols?”

I couldn’t help it. I grinned like an idiot as I turned around. Daryl stood in the darker corner of the porch, still only in that light grey shirt with the sleeves halfway rolled up his arms. When he had stepped inside the house this evening, actually following Maggie’s order and showing his face for the official part of the party, I had to look twice. At least. Daryl looked good. He had showered and that shirt did not only fit him distractingly well, it also brought out the blue of his eyes earlier.

With as much casualness as I could muster, I sauntered over to him. Daryl dragged at a cigarette that must be stale as hell. I hadn’t seen him smoke for a long time, so either he had saved the cigarettes for a special occasion or something was stressing him out.

“There isn’t so much singing with that eggnog going on.” I leaned against the banister, watching Daryl through the smoke and our foggy breath. “Not your drink of choice, I guess?”

Daryl shrugged. “Not much of a Christmas fan.”

I plugged the cigarette from Daryl’s fingers and took a drag. Hell, that eggnog had been strong. I would have never dared to do this sober. But really, what could I lose? “Christmas at the Dixon household not much fun, huh?”

Daryl snorted and pushed his hands inside his pants’ pockets.

Ah shit. Good one, Rovia.

I crushed the butt of the cigarette on the porch railing, trying to organize my thoughts that danced around my head. “So, I guess you never dragged half a forest into your home before to decorate everything with twigs and tinsel?” Yeah, it even got better now! Hell, pull yourself together, Paul!

Daryl snorted again and I dared to glance up. He hadn’t moved, just stood in the same corner, gazing out over the frozen fields of Hilltop. I wanted to lean into his broad chest.

“Course not. My Pa would throw a tantrum if my Ma brought something as gross and dirty into the trailer as a real tree. Too expensive on top. We had a little plastic tree with annoying as hell blinkin’ lights until the batteries died. Was all there ever was.”

I studied his profile with the slightly crooked nose and the little goatee at his chin. Daryl had thin lips that now were rough from the cold outside. His hair still hung partially into his eyes despite Carol’s hair cutting session last week.

“So you never got kissed under a mistletoe?”

“What?” Daryl turned around and stared at me. Usually, I would laugh now. Or say some bullshit that made Daryl growl in frustration at me. But I could only stare back now, my head buzzing from the alcohol, but somehow clearer than ever.

“Did you ever get kissed under a mistletoe?”, I repeated my question.

“What the fuck –“

“It’s just, you’re standing under one right now.”

Daryl looked up to the bundle of twigs above his head. All day couples had gathered on this spot on the porch, smooching and delaying the preparations for the party. I had laughed at Maggie’s grumbling and pulled her under it for a kiss as well. But my heart hadn’t pounded in my throat just like it did now. My hands hadn’t been sweaty either and my head had been definitely sober onto my shoulders.

I took a step closer, just as Daryl looked back at me with almost suspiciously furrowed brows. As if this was some trick. But he didn’t lean back when I was close enough that our shoes bumped each other. 

I swallowed because this close I could smell Daryl. Under the bitterness of stale cigarette smoke lay something neutral, a hint of soap maybe. And under that, just Daryl.

I leaned in and his lips were just as rough as they looked. But they were warm as I kissed him with blood rushing in my ears. “Merry Christmas, Daryl”, I whispered in the air between us. I was too nervous to look up into his eyes.

The door behind us flew open and Glenn stumbled outside. “There he is!”, he yelled loudly, coming over and throwing an arm around my shoulders. I turned around, grinning widely at Glenn’s drunken, happy smile. “Maggie’s looking for you. Something about presents and Santa Claus.”

Glenn dragged me back into the warmth of the house. I stumbled along, laughing at his unsteady path. Just as we crossed the threshold, I dared to glance back to Daryl. As he caught my gaze, he shook his head with a roll of his eyes and a small smile playing on his lips. I grabbed Glenn’s arm around my shoulders tighter as I grinned back with ears growing hot from something else than the frost.


	6. F for Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This year's firefighter calendar is a hit. Especially for Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. And fluff ...
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos! Keep it up, I want to know which stories you've enjoyed!

“Come on, Daryl, please!”

“Ain’t doin’ this shit!”

Sasha looks at Abraham for support, but he just shakes his head as he rolls up the empty fire hose. “Don’t look at me! I’m not helping you getting another man naked, girl!”

Sasha huffs and scurries after Daryl. “There’s nothing bad about it! The last calendar was a hit, sold out after only a month! And you know what? We got that brand new truck you love so much from that funding money. This year we could finally get enough money for us to attend those psychological trainings for traumatized kids! I know that you’ve been nagging Rick about that for the last sixteen months! Because I was there as well!” 

She dives around the lockers, cutting off Daryl’s path to the showers. “Please, Daryl, it’s just one month missing and with you there wouldn’t be a doubling.”

He scowls at her, but doesn’t move to push her aside. “I ain’t gettin’ naked and photographed for some old housewives to gobble over me.”

“You don’t have to get naked-naked. A wet, white t-shirt is just as sexy. Pretty please, Daryl?”

Daryl glares at her. Finally, he pushes her to the left, so he can finally have a shower. “But I ain’t doin’ this shit naked! And you’re not watchin’!”

Sasha’s grin is brighter than a thousand lumen blub.

#

“Count yourself loved, because this is the fifth-last copy!” Tara slaps a poorly wrapped present into Paul’s lap. “Merry Christmas to my favorite flat-mate!”

Paul grins at her. “I’m your only flat-mate, but thanks anyway!”

“Come on, open up!”

Paul laughs. “Relax! It’s my present! Besides, it’s from you, shouldn’t you know what is inside anyway?”

“I do,” declares Tara and pops another cookie into her mouth. “I just wanna see your face.”

Paul raises an eyebrow as he tears the wrapping apart. “Why? Should I get safety gloves or something?”

Tara just shrugs and watches like an overexcited puppy, as he pulls her present from the wrapping. It’s a calendar and Paul already has a dry comment on his lips, when he turns it around and gapes. It’s their town’s traditional firefighter calendar. But unlike the previous years, it’s the first time they only put their men in it. The complete run of fifty thousand copies has been sold out seventeen days after the publishing. Paul had been devastated when he had found out.

“This – where – Tara!”

“I know!” She grins and then yelps as Paul pulls her into a tight hug. “I had to fight two mean looking Moms and an old lady with a crane to get it!”

Paul pulls back laughing and glances at the cover. It bears the logo of their fire department with their mascot, a black and white mutt, looking mischievously into the camera. It’s the only adorable picture. 

Paul paws through the months with Tara over his shoulder. Although it is entirely not her cup of tea, she likes to compare the pictures and poses of the regular models with the previous years. Paul skims over the photos and the little information provided about every firefighter at the back of their sheet.

Although he will have to take his time and have a closer look at every single picture when he is alone, Paul already knows that March (Aaron Marquand), July (Rick Grimes) and occasionally August as well (when he is in the right mood for the bulk that is Abraham Ford) will come in handy as jack off-material. Literally.

It is November that takes his breath away. This guy is wearing more clothes than all the others combined, but something about the whole photo has Paul hooked. The guy leans against a fire truck, hands tugged inside the pockets of his low riding work pants. His head is turned to the side and he is biting his lip, which accentuates a beauty mark. The white shirt he wears is sodding wet as though the poor guy got hosed down, and clings to his body, which is just … wow. The short sleeves of the t-shirt have been pushed up to reveal the most mouthwatering upper arms Paul has ever seen. The rest of the shirt reveals more than it hides. The guy has some serious pecs and his nibbles almost peek through the thin material. There is a droplet of water running down the guy’s neck from his wild, wet hair that Paul just wants to lick.

Tara grabs the calendar sheet from Paul’s slack fingers and turns it over. “Daryl Dixon”, she reads. “Safed Bummer, our mascot dog, from a house fire. Born 1979 … that means … forty-one next year. Not too bad, I guess. You could still date him.”

“Tara!” Paul grabs the sheet out of her hand and shuts the calendar. “I’m not gonna date that guy. He’ll just pay me a visit in my own mind one or two times and that’s it!”

Tara laughs as she pushes him in the shoulder. “One or two times? Really? You were practically drooling onto his picture!”

“Says the girl, who has seen _Ghost in the Shell_ at least three times to ogle at Scarlett Johansson in that suit-thing!”

#

“Daddy, Daddy, look! I got a helmet, too!” Judith wiggles in Daryl’s arms until he has no other choice but put her down, so she can race over to Rick to show him Daryl’s gigantic helmet on her little head. He watches with a grin as Rick picks her up, barely catching the wobbling helmet.

The sound of something wet hitting the floor lets him turn around. He expects another melting puddle of ice in the blasting sun and another mother, whose patience is taken to the test during this year’s street festival. Instead, he stares at the most gorgeous man he has seen in a very long time. His long hair is partly twisted in some kind of bun, his face framed by a thick beard. He looks skinny in his too big shirt that now sports a big wet spot where the slush spilled all over the guy.

“Paul! You okay?” A girl holding the hand of an Asian guy comes closer, but the man with the long hair still stares at Daryl. Then he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair, blinks owlishly, then looks down and curses, as if he only then notices the blue sugary water over the front of his shirt.

“Need a napkin?”

The guy’s head snaps back up and now that Daryl has taken two steps closer to him he can see that he has astonishingly blue eyes.

“Might need a new shirt”, he mumbles.

“Not just a new shirt”, a girl suddenly says behind him and Daryl watches in confusion as she leads the girl with her Asian-looking boyfriend away with a smirk. “See you at the bouncy castle, Jesus!”

Daryl gives the guy – not Jesus, Paul the other girl has called him – one of their promotional shirts with their logo of the fire department on it. He does definitely not stare as Paul strips out of the ruined one in public. He also does not stare at the muscular body that hides underneath that baggy shirt.

They also don’t exchange numbers after they run into each other eight times during the festival.

Daryl does also not ask Michonne for advice on how to ask Paul out on a date, neither does he call Carol so she gets to his place and picks an outfit for him for that occasion.

But he does kiss Paul at the bonfire, when Paul surprises him with a picnic on his birthday.


	7. G for German

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coincidences reveal the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last one was so short, I thought I post another short one ...  
> This one is just a silly little thing, don't take it seriously.

“Armleuchter”, the girl says and grins at Paul’s attempt to repeat the word. He nearly breaks his tongue as he tries to copy her _ch_ -sound that reminds Daryl vaguely of a hissing cat.

Glenn snickers as he walks beside their newest addition to Alexandria, Melanie, a seventeen-year-old former exchange student from Germany, who has been to the States just as the plague hit. She wasn’t able to get a flight back to her family and most likely will never see her home country again. Despite her personal tragedy and all the horrors she has endured, she still laughs easily with Glenn about Paul’s crude attempts of learning German insults.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Paul asks, when he gives up the correct pronunciation. 

“Armleuchter? The right translation is probably dimwit. Literally it means candelabra.”

“You insult people being some piece of interior decoration?” Paul’s eyes are huge and Glenn nearly trips over his feet laughing.

“Oh, we do a lot more!” Melanie grins. “Armleuchter is one of the nicer insult. It’s … you usually use it to insult friends. Not for being mean and hurtful, but, you know, playfully express that your friend’s an idiot. A charming idiot, but an idiot nevertheless. You can use it on strangers, too, but no one would ever be really hurt over that word, you know what I mean?”

“Okay, and if you want to be mean?” asks Glenn.

Melanie laughs. “Well, Flachwichser is a good start.”

“A what?”

“Flachwichser.” She laughs again at Glenn and Paul’s bugging eyes. It’s all complicated hissing sounds with varying degrees of depth and dullness. “It means wanker. If you really want to be cruel you call someone a Hackfresse. It literally means that someone’s face looks like ground meat.”

“Ouch, not very nice!”, laughs Paul with dancing eyes. 

“If you actually want to hurt the other with your insult, always go for their parents. For example, a Fickfehler is someone that was unplanned and probably unwanted, because it means you’re a fuck error. _That_ is really not very nice.”

“Wow, I had no idea there were this many insults in German. Makes me feel dump and unimaginative about our own insults”, says Glenn.

They are almost back at Alexandria. The walls already come into view and Paul still tries to pronounce one of the words correctly that Melanie has tried to teach them. Daryl rolls his eyes at his hissing, still not managing the right ch-sound. “Just stop it, will ya?”

Paul turns around gleefully. “You’re just too scared to even try it!”

“Am not.”

“You are! Arm-leck-ter!”

Daryl narrows his eyes. “Shut up, Spargeltarzan!”

Paul trips over a stone as he gapes at Daryl. Daryl almost runs into Glenn, who has stopped to stare at him as well. Only Melanie bursts out laughing as she eyes Paul. “He’s right, you kind of are!”

Paul’s mouth opens and closes with no words coming out. Glenn isn’t that stunned, but he seems to have forgotten how to put words into the correct order to form a sentence. “How – Daryl – when – _why?_ “

Paul seems to have found his tongue again. “Yes, Daryl, how? And what even?”

Daryl shrugs. “My grannie's parents were German. Taught me some things. Mostly slurs, because she did those a lot.”

“Neat”, says Melanie, holding her hand up for Daryl to give her a high-five. A grin tugs at Daryl’s lips as he actually follows through, before pushing his way past them and walking back on the way to Alexandria.

“You never thought about telling us that you are bilingual?”, Paul shouts after him.

“No.”

“What was that even? A Spas-Speg-?”

“Spargeltarzan.” Daryl grins broader but doesn’t turn around. Three pair of feet soon follow him with quick steps.

“That’s a person, who is pretty skinny or gangly. Literally it translates to asparagus Tarzan”, Melanie quips.

“You called me what?!”, Paul explodes behind him through Glenn’s fit of laughter.

Daryl’s grin is huge as he throws his middle finger up in the air without turning. “C’mon, keep up, Labertasche!”


	8. H for Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you keep the things the way they usually are, you might never discover the remarkable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU with A/O background
> 
> Thank you all for reading, loving and commenting!

_Usually._

Paul’s word of the evening.

He didn’t know how exactly this happened, but it felt good. Right.

Usually, when Paul decided to hook up with a stranger, and especially when he picked up a guy from a shady bar rather than his usual club, he would never take that guy to his own home. He didn’t want them to know exactly where he lived. He wanted to leave in the morning (or on rare occasions, right after) without much fuss. His home was Paul’s castle and he was more than picky who was allowed to cross the drawbridge to judge his living choices.

Usually, Paul wouldn’t give in to his needs this close to his next heat either. It wasn’t so much the hellish risk of giving an Alpha he didn’t know basically a free ticket to do anything to him that he wouldn’t have agreed to if he was in his right mind. Paul had no desire to wake up after his heat with a mating mark on his neck. Or with the clap, because the Alpha was too stupid for protection.

But Paul was proud of his self-control. He didn’t want his body to tell him what to do. He was the master of his own ship and if he had to sail into a storm, he wanted to decide how to brave the elements.

That was usually.

Now, a strange Alpha Paul had picked up at a bar called Woodsie’s, where they served cheap burgers and cheaper beers, where the linoleum of the floor came up at the corners and the seats had seen better times twenty years ago, pressed Paul into his own bed at his own home. And Paul’s heat was due in three days max. 

But something about the guy had Paul hooked. He couldn’t put his finger on, but as their eyes met briefly when Paul ordered his to-go-menu, the air felt charged. He could feel the stranger’s eyes on him, then gone again and back on him. Paul had shivered. But not in disgust as he usually felt when Alphas leered at him. It had felt good. Nice. Exiting.

When Paul had turned around, a bag with his burger and fries in one hand, he had been fucking disappointed to find the stool at the bar empty and the Alpha nowhere in sight. When Paul stepped outside, trying to wrap his head around his sudden and disproportional letdown, his eyes had landed on the guy on their own. As if he was looking for him.

The guy was smoking a cigarette and usually that was a huge turn off for Paul. Usually. 

On him, it looked sexy. 

Although the guy wasn’t Paul’s type. Not by a long shot. Paul’s preferred bed partners were sunny boys with bright smiles and white teeth, a good taste in fashion and a healthy attention towards exercise and food. Easy to look at and easy to forget.

Paul wasn’t even sure this guy could smile at all. He looked abrasively, almost dubious. He wasn’t that big and his clothes had definitely seen better days for one, and all in all – judging by their baggy look – hadn’t cost more than thirty bucks. Paul would have never looked at him twice.

But he had gone over and asked with the charm of a toilet brush: “Hey, I’d like to take you home with me. You in?”

The guy had stared at him, cigarette halfway up to his mouth. He had a bit of a goatee, which Paul usually would have found either ridiculous or worth a bucket-load of second-hand embarrassment. But it fit this guy somehow. Same with his hairstyle, if someone would call this clearly self-cut mess of brown hair a style. Or with the slightly ratty looking wife-beater he wore underneath that ugly plaid shirt, and the thin gold chain around his neck. The guy had everything Paul would use to describe a redneck, maybe safe for the trucker cap, which was missing in the guy’s case.

But it fit. And more so, this guy made all those things look sexy.

Up close, Paul could see his clear, blue eyes. His skin was sweaty, but that was no wonder in this heat. Underneath a bit of dirt and sweat, he looked fit. Not like he acquired his figure in a gym, but from hard work.

The guy had swallowed and flicked his cigarette in the curb without looking. Then he had nodded jerkily and followed Paul home, driving with his bike behind Paul’s shitty little Chevy. 

Paul had opened the door to his apartment with shaking hands and just as he entered, he had pulled the man inside, who hadn’t pressed himself all over Paul as Alphas usually did with him in the prospect of having sex. Instead he had hovered almost unsure behind Paul, waiting for Paul to make the next move.

Well, Paul did. He had kissed the guy against the closed apartment’s door, greedily pressing close. It had taken the other a moment to get on train with Paul’s pace, but then they were kissing like they depended on it. Paul had steered them into his bedroom without a second thought, falling onto the bed and pulling the man down with him.

Now he licked at the slim stripe of Paul’s collarbone, where the collar of his shirt was pulled down, while Paul pushed the guy’s plaid shirt off his shoulders. Lips pressed behind his ear and Paul had a hard time breathing properly. Alphas before had kissed him there, but not like this. Paul pushed the guy up to give himself a break.

“What – what’s your name?” Paul stared at him, not believing his own ears. He never asked for names, if they were not given. 

The guy stared back, his lips red from Paul’s beard and his hair sticking up in every direction from Paul’s fingers. “Daryl.”

“Name’s Paul.” What the fuck?! If Alphas ever asked him about his name, he would go with that stupid nickname of Jesus, wink at the guys cheekily and be done with it. “You mind taking that off, Daryl?” He grabbed the hem of the wife-beater and tried to push it up Daryl’s chest, but they were too close for Paul to do the job himself.

Daryl froze, staring at him with a heaving chest. Then he slowly sat back and pulled the shirt over his head.

Paul stared. It was usually the other way around, the Alphas stripping him or telling him to and he had no problem with that. But an Alpha following his orders was new. Just as new as the look of self-doubt and embarrassment Daryl threw him from under his lashes.

“Sorry, probably ain’t what yer used to see.”

Paul dropped his eyes to the broad chest in front of him. Sure, he was usually greeted with defined pecs and a chiseled stomach. Maybe a pierced nipple as well. Daryl had a faded tattoo of a name on his left pec, which looked suspiciously self-made. His chest hair trailed down over a flat, but slightly soft belly with some graying hairs amongst the dark curls. A few scars deformed the skin on his right side. 

Paul sat up as well and leaned forward to run a hand over Daryl’s chest and down the trail of darker hair. Daryl was warm underneath his palm and he could feel the frantic heartbeat vibrating through his body. 

Heat shot down in his belly as Paul realized that Daryl was fucking nervous. No typical cocky self-confidence of an Alpha about to give it to an Omega. No arrogant remarks about how they would make Paul feel so good. It was as if Daryl was actually awestruck by Paul.

A wave of slick spilled into his underwear. Daryl must have smelled that, because a low growl escaped his throat. That made Paul even wetter.

Paul grabbed the waist of Daryl’s pants to haul himself close enough to whisper in his ear: “Wanna see all of you.” Daryl shivered as Paul’s fingers popped the button open without looking down. Instead he did something he had never done before; he licked over the scent glands behind Daryl’s ear, just as Daryl had done to him earlier. The taste of Daryl exploded on his tongue and Paul moaned without thinking. His underwear was soaked by his slick at this point and his cock throbbed uncomfortably against his pants, but he couldn’t stop kissing and licking Daryl.

Hands were on his waist, rough, calloused, big, warm hands that pushed his shirt up and then slid over his back and his sides. 

“Daryl”, breathed Paul, shivering and hot all over, “Daryl, naked, please …”

Paul didn’t usually use the word _please_ in the bedroom. He didn’t like to beg, because he always felt like a whore asking for it. So he avoided it at all costs. But right now, with Daryl panting and pressing kisses down his neck, it just fell out.

Daryl’s hands fell away and Paul whined at their loss on his skin.

“Just a second.” Daryl kissed the corner of Paul’s mouth, while he wiggled out of his trousers that Paul had pulled open, but hadn’t followed his own actions through to the end. Paul watched as the trail of hair on Daryl’s stomach grew wide and thick around his groin as the trousers were pushed off. He couldn’t help but stare at Daryl’s cock. It was going to be inside him.

Paul grabbed his shirt and yanked it off his body.

He panted, staring mesmerized down at the cock in front of him. A new wave of slick trickled already down his leg. His own cock pulsed in his pants. From somewhere came a high, keening sound and Paul only realized with sudden shock that it was him making that pathetic noise, when Daryl pulled him close and whispered: “Sh, I’m here.”

Paul took a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes close. Something was off, because he had never felt that way before, as if he was floating and didn’t know where to grab to keep himself from drifting off. He didn’t know what to do when usually he would push the Alpha down and take over, riding himself on their cocks or fingers as he pleased. He wasn’t headless. And he didn’t keen or whimper for any Alpha’s attention ever.

But now Daryl had to help him out of his wet pants that stuck to his skin. It was relief and torture at the same time to feel the air on his overheated skin. The pressure on his cock was gone and he wanted it back. Preferably by Daryl pressing down on top of him and rubbing his stomach against it. While he fucked Paul. Slick trickled down between his thighs at that thought.

Paul wound an arm around Daryl’s neck and crashed their mouths together. There wasn’t any finesse left, Paul just parted his lips and pressed his tongue against Daryl. He fell back onto the mattress, pulling Daryl with him without breaking the kiss. Daryl stroked over his sides and down his flank, moaning into their kiss. He pressed down on Paul’s cock with his body and Paul thrust up for more friction. It wasn’t enough.

“Wait, wait. Fuck”, cursed Daryl between bites.

Paul growled. “Done waiting. Want you, Daryl. Now.”

Daryl groaned, nibbling at Paul’s glands behind his ear, while he grabbed his waist and tried to still Paul’s movement. “Shit … Condoms … Paul, condoms.”

It took all of Paul’s available brain capacity to understand what Daryl was saying. Then he hastily scrambled for his nightstand. God, what was wrong with him? His most important premise was no sex without protection. Regardless how hot the Alpha was or how bad Paul wanted to fuck. No condom, no sex. Right now he was shocked by himself. He would have slept with Daryl, who he knew for maybe an hour or two now, without a second thought about his own health. 

Paul tried to calm his racing heart and throbbing cock as he rummaged around the drawer. The condoms were a relict from his relationship with Alex and he quickly checked the expiration date. Still usable.

“Here.” He twisted on his stomach as he handed the package over to Daryl, who ripped a foil open quickly. Paul had to turn back at the sight, closing the drawer and trying to clear his head a bit. He heard Daryl rolling the condom down and after a moment calloused fingers softly stroked a line down his spine. Goosebumps broke out on Paul’s arms.

“How – how d’ya wanna have me?”

Paul turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Daryl kneeled on the bed between his legs, watching the slick glistening on Paul’s thighs, but not doing anything any other Alpha usually had done with Paul, like licking it right off his skin or trailing it back to its origin with their fingers.

Paul buried himself deeper into the comforter. Despite the frenzy only minutes ago, he suddenly felt almost drowsy. He swallowed, then lifted up his ass a fraction in clear invitation. 

His heart was suddenly beating in his throat, as he watched Daryl’s eyes widen. There had been only one other person who had seen Paul like that and that had been a lifetime ago. When Paul slept with Alphas now, he preferably sat on top, riding them, or in rare occasions let himself be thrown on his back and fucked into the mattress. Paul didn’t do mating positions. 

Daryl inhaled sharply, the hand on Paul’s back shaking. His eyes flitted up to Paul’s and stayed locked as he slowly leaned over Paul’s back. But instead of pressing inside instantly, Daryl pressed a kiss on one of Paul’s moles just above his hipbone. Then the little scar Paul had at the side of his ribs from the bike accident when he had been five. Then right underneath his shoulder blade. Up to his shoulder. 

Paul moved his hand into Daryl’s wild hair when he was close enough and pulled him down against his lips. Daryl was trembling, but Paul wasn’t so much better. They kissed slowly, almost carefully, mapping each other, and Paul sighed as Daryl’s hand moved from his waist down his thigh to push his legs wider apart. Paul could feel the tip of Daryl’s cock brushing over his ass and slipping between his cheeks teasingly. 

He whined as another wave of slick drippled out of him, smearing all over Daryl’s cock. Daryl’s breath faltered and he bit down on Paul’s lower lip. Paul twisted his head and tightened his hold in Daryl’s hair, kissing him back feverishly. He pressed his ass up and against Daryl in unmistakable plea and offering. One of Daryl’s hands sneaked under his chest and wrapped around Paul’s shoulder that he pressed into the mattress for balance. The other tightened around Paul’s thigh as Daryl pushed slowly inside.

Paul moaned loudly and Daryl stilled, breathing hard, his cock buried as deep as possible inside Paul. They kissed with quivering lips. Then Daryl pulled back and sunk inside again, just as slowly as before and Paul’s eyes rolled back when Daryl stroked over his prostate.

After that, everything was a blur in Paul’s mind. He remembered licking Daryl’s scent glands again, panting and moaning with every thrust of Daryl. He remembered Daryl pressing him flush against the mattress, trapping his cock between Paul’s own body and the sheets, pushing his knee up to his side and opening Paul even wider. He remembered lips and teeth all over his body and Daryl’s reassuring weight pressing him down. He remembered the drunken way Daryl had said his name, again and again as he thrust into Paul. He remembered bending his neck, offering it to Daryl as his hips stuttered and an orgasm so powerful it blinded Paul for a moment ripped through him. He remembered Daryl biting into the offered flesh as he groaned out Paul’s name and came with snapping hips. He remembered Daryl’s knot and that he came a second time.

He remembered lying in bed, kissing lazily until Daryl’s knot swelled down. He remembered dragging Daryl into his shower to rinse off and Daryl sinking to his knees and blowing him against the steamy glass wall. He remembered not making it back to the bed after the shower; he remembered Daryl hoisting him up against a wall, Paul wrapping his legs around his waist as Daryl fucked him to his fourth orgasm in under three hours.

He remembered waking up after four days, aching and starving, with bite marks all over his body as the rest of his heat cleared from his mind. He also remembered the shock when he spotted the mating bite below his ear.

He also remembered staggering back into his bedroom and staring at a sleeping Daryl and a similar mating mark low on his neck.

Usually, that would have been the point to panic. Usually. But Paul also remembered a deep contentment when Daryl blinked his eyes open to look at him and the feeling of rightness flooding his chest.

Paul remembered every vivid detail of how Daryl became his mate.

Of course, he couldn’t tell Judith that when she asked them over family dinner at the Grime’s household one evening with big, innocent eyes. Daryl beside him blushed fiercely and choked on the buttered peas.

Paul grinned and said: “Oh, we met while I bought some burgers.”


	9. I for Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child's mouth speaks the truth

“No, Judy, don’t play with your food.” Rick pulled the hand of his daughter out of her bowl with fruit salad. “Here, take the spoon and eat it or leave it for Carl. You are a big girl, you know the rules.”

Michonne chuckled as she watched her husband struggle with their four-year old. Judith pouted and stared darkly down at her bowl.

“What you’re gonna do today?”,Michonne asked Rick, dunking her bread into the dab of jam on her plate.

“I think I’ll head out with Aaron and Rosita. We need to check this place a couple of miles down south. Jesus said there might still be tools and screws and stuff. You?”

“I wanted to check that hunting cabin, where Glenn and Heath have locked up some walkers on their last run. Clear them out, secure the place. We could turn it into a safe house for when the weather gets too dangerous to continue walking back to Alexandria. Or if someone needs to lay low.”

Rick bit into his piece of bread and stuffed some dried venison right in afterwards. Judith watched him with big eyes and only Michonne’s stern look made him swallow before he opened his mouth again. “Who’re you taking with you?”

“Daryl. By the way, where is he? Is he already out?”

Rick shrugged. “Haven’t seen him, but I guess. Sun is up for almost three hours already.”

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“When you kill the walkers, can you check Daryl’s room as well?” Judith picked at a bit of wrinkled apple’s paring.

Michonne quickly shared a look with Rick, who looked just as confused. “Why would we need to check Daryl’s room for walkers?” Rick didn’t let his concern show, but if something had happened and there were walkers in Daryl’s room, which was the reason why Daryl wouldn’t be already up and outside … He didn’t dare to think of what might possibly have happened in that scenario, because it would mean Daryl was dead.

“I heard noises”, said Judith, still fascinated with her apple.

“What noises, Judy?”, asked Michonne, leaning forward. Her forehead was wrinkled in concern as well. “Judy, look at me. What noises?”

“Walker noises,” Judith said with round eyes. “I don’t want Daryl to have walkers in his room, Mommy. Can you please tell Daryl? I don’t like them. They’re no fun.”

“Of course, honey,” said Michonne as she leaned forward and stroked her daughter the blonde strands out of her eyes. “We’ll tell him.”

Rick was halfway out of his chair as the stairs creaked and two sets of feet scurried down. Three pairs of eyes stared at Daryl and Jesus, when they entered the kitchen.

“Uncle Daryl!”, shouted Judith, walkers already forgotten, throwing her arms in the air and a little grape halfway through the kitchen.

“Hey, Lil’ Asskicker.” Daryl ruffled Judith’s hair with a grin.

“Morning. Didn’t know you stayed here, Jesus,” greeted Michonne.

“Why did you have walkers in your room, Uncle Daryl?”

Rick stared baffled at Daryl, who froze at that innocent question and turned beet red. Then his eyes flicked over to Jesus, who looked just as uncomfortable all of a sudden. 

No one said a word, but only Judith was oblivious to the sudden tension in the kitchen.

“Weren’t no walkers, Judy,” Daryl finally rasped.

“But I heard them!”

Jesus dropped his head in his hand. His red ears peeked out from his long hair, as he mumbled, “Oh god”, into his hand.

“They said that, too!”, exclaimed Judith excitedly.

Rick’s jaw dropped to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Michonne’s pearly white shark grin. She had slumped back into her chair, with her arms crossed over her chest as if this was some stand-up comedy program. Rick couldn’t believe it.

“Out. Right now!”, he hissed, pointing at Daryl. He didn’t look back to see if Daryl followed, but he better was. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so discrete in his lecture.

In the living room, he turned around, jumping right into Daryl’s face. “What in the hell were you thinking? Daryl, she is my daughter! My four years old daughter!”

“I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t know you moved her to that room.”

“Even if not, it would have been Carl sleeping there!”

Daryl had a hard time meeting his eyes. Good! 

“I’m sorry, Rick, alright!”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you and Jesus – This was fucking immature of you! You can’t bring someone over and – and have sex next door to my daughter!”

“Because she haven’t heard you and Michonne before?”, scoffed Daryl. “I’m sorry, Rick. Won’t happen again, okay? Weren’t thinking.”

“You two clearly weren’t thinking,” growled Rick. “My daughter doesn’t need to hear her uncle and Jesus going at each other and frighten her with all that moaning!”

Daryl crossed his arms over his chest and looked to the side, cheeks still pink.

“You’re not bringing him here again, you hear me?”

That made Daryl look at him again. “What, you throwing me out?”

Rick rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of course not. But next time take your date somewhere else. Please.”

Daryl suddenly dropped his arms to his sides and took a step forward. “What do you think this is, me and Paul? Some hook-up? Some dirty fuck?”

“Daryl,” Rick tried to interfere, but Daryl rolled on, suddenly angry instead of embarrassed. 

“Me and Paul, we haven’t seen each other for almost two months. I’m sorry, this happened, but I live here as well. Didn’t know I had to ask your permission for – for sleeping with someone.” Daryl’s face was red again, but he didn’t back down. “Didn’t remember you doing the same when you and Michonne were going at it with no walls between me and yous.”

Rick tried to progress what Daryl just said, but it all tumbled together in his head. “I – what?”

“We keep it down next time, but don’t make such a fuss about it. Never said a word that it’d bothers you so much, if I –“ Daryl snapped his mouth shut at Rick’s growing eyes. “What?”

“You – you are _together?_ ”

Daryl stared at him, then he suddenly sneered: “You know what, fuck you. I’m moving out.”

“What – Daryl, no!” Rick quickly grabbed Daryl’s arm and pulled him back. Daryl didn’t budge, but he didn’t make it for the door either. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, brother. You are right, you live here with the same rights as me and Michonne. And I maybe should have told you that we moved Judy into Carl’s old room. Daryl, would you please turn around?”

Rick waited several heartbeats, as Daryl stood unmoving, before he finally faced him again. He could see the deep discomfort in his posture and the anticipation of a staggering judgement. “I had no idea that you and Jesus are like that. As a couple, I mean. I’m sorry I didn’t notice, but please be sure that I’m happy for you. Although I feel a bit miffed that my daughter knows before me, your own brother.” Rick quirked his lips. “You’re a goddamn secretive bastard.”

“Fuck you”, said Daryl again, but this time without any heat.

“When did that happen anyway?”

“Daddy!” Judith yelled from the kitchen. “It weren’t walkers! Uncle Daryl just bit Uncle Jesus for fun!”

“Oh, so you bit him, huh?”, grinned Rick with twinkling eyes. 

Daryl turned red again and shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Fuck you,” he muttered, as he trotted back into the kitchen, closely followed by Rick. “Ain’t telling you nosy Grimes nothing.”


	10. J for Jar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, sorry for the long wait! As an apology you'll get two stories on one day *yay*
> 
> This one is an experiment. I don't know if I like it, but the idea about American faes just plopped into my head. I totaly made up everything said about fairies and faes in this one, so sorry if that bothers someone :( It's somewhat dark and sad, I guess ...? Please let me know what you think!

Although time was a concept that didn’t apply to Daryl per se, it was fucking frustrating just sitting around and waiting for someone to pop the fucking lid of his little glass prison. For a while, Daryl had tried to break the glass with his magic, but of course that was utterly fruitless. For a greasy, dumb piece of shit the old man that had lured him in knew full well, how to catch a goddamn fae. Daryl stewed in his empty moonshine glass, frustrated with himself and a bit embarrassed that he had fallen for the simplest trick.

A mobile with twinkling, polished pieces of metal and a glass of fresh beer.

The old, ugly man had snickered as he had imposed the glass on Daryl’s sorry ass, knocking the glass of beer over in the process and showering Daryl with sour smelling liquid that still itched and made Daryl feel icky. He was used to being dirty or covered in blood; Daryl was a hunter fae for fuck’s sake. But he felt like he was moldering away alive, cramped into his smallest form, unable to feel the air on his skin and the ground beneath his feet.

At first, Daryl had grumbled and hissed at the old man, who was missing enough teeth to fly slalom between them, as Daryl noted when his prison was lifted off the ground and held at eye level with the bastard. Of course it had been fruitless, his threats empty and that asshole knew it. His moonshine jar had been put up on a shelf, overlooking the quite impressive amount of equipment for brewing alcohol of all sorts. 

He was a fucking good-luck charm.

After months of brewing and bottling the stuff, Daryl had hoped that this was it. That the old man would finally set him free after this deed was done. 

Far from it. Daryl had been pocketed and that bastard had taken him out into the woods. The green was so tempting behind the glass and Daryl could almost smell the air again. But he had been put down on the ground and the man had vanished. With horror, Daryl realized what he was doing. Daryl was the bait to lure in game.

And they came, of course they came, although Daryl screamed bloody murder at them to take off. But neither the bucks, nor the rabbits or boars would listen. They all came, because although he was a hunter fae and would take one of them down occasionally, he was still a fae. He valued all life and he would never hunt an animal down just for fun. He would help them, when they were injured, show them safe passages to avoid humans and doted to their offspring. So now, when they saw him being in trouble himself, they came to take a look and help him out.

The ugly bastard only had to aim and would shoot them without any finesse. That fall he slayed twelve deer, five bucks, thirty-two wild pigs and seventy-nine rabbits.

All with Daryl’s help.

Daryl had no idea, what he did with all those animals, since he never left the shed expect for those hunting trips into the woods. But one day, the ugly, old man came back with a new little box that he put up on a rickety little table and planted himself in front of it, watching the changing pictures for hours on end. Sometimes, he would doze off with an empty beer can in his hand and several more littering the floor to his feet. Sometimes the man would yell at the box, but it never reacted to his threats. And sometimes, he would watch naked women being held down and spread open, being fucked by men just outside the pictures, and got his own junk out and jerking off. The first time that happened, Daryl nearly puked. 

The old man brought more new stuff over to the shed, so Daryl reckoned he sold the animals he put down with Daryl’s help. A new cooler that was bigger than the old one and could store more beer cans. A heater, when the nights got chillier. A new hunting rifle and – for some reason unknown to Daryl – a crossbow. He had seen the idiot shoot with it and after missing the big tree trunk seventeen times in a row, the man had cursed and thrown the bow into a heap of junk at the back of the shed. 

What a waste of time and energy. Daryl’s fingers itched to get on that weapon. He had learnt to hunt with one, preferring it to a normal bow or spear, and he just wanted to be out again. Stretch his wings and take off. Crawl through the bushes until he was one with his surroundings. 

The crossbow and the little box with its endless stream of pictures only could entertain the old man for so long. One stormy night, when the little antenna on top of the box wouldn’t get in the pictures the man wanted to see, no matter how hard he shook it and how loud he cursed, he turned his attention on Daryl. For the first time since he had caught him, he took the glass and actually looked inside. 

Daryl was sure that if he would rely on water, air and food like humans did, he would have been dead long ago. As it was, his magic was holding him upright and alive, but there was a limit to that as well. Right now, he had enough energy to sneer at the ugly face peering inside, and balling his fists. But he wouldn’t survive an endless time. He had to get out eventually. And maybe this was the time. If this bastard was dumb enough to lift the lid just one tiny bit …

Daryl wasn’t prepared for the glass smashing him in the head and slapping so hard against his body that he feared he had broken something, as the man shook his glass ferociously. He was so dazed as the world finally stilled around him again, that he looked up too late. The lid had been lifted indeed, but with pure horror Daryl watched as the hot and angry burning butt of a cigarette was dumped inside. He hadn’t time to put the ambers out with his magic. As soon as the lid was back on, the man shook the glass again, mixing Daryl with the burning ashes. It wasn’t so hot that Daryl got any severe injuries, but his wings took all the damage. They were fragile looking, transparent sets of two, extruding like little blades from between his shoulders. Despite their delicate looks, it was hard to really damage them. They resisted snapping twigs, harsh winds and animal claws. But not fire.

Now, Daryl sat in his awful glass prison, with crippled wings, starving and smelling his own decay, watching with morbid interest as a woman with guts hanging out of a nasty looking wound on her belly stumbled into the shed, arms outstretched towards the old bastard. He hollered at her and blew the load of his shotgun into her chest. She didn’t even stagger, just took a step to the side as if drunk and then fell upon the man, while he fired another two shots into her belly. She tore into his shoulder like a starving mountain lion and he screamed, high-pitched and pitiful, thrashing on the ground until he stilled.

Daryl tore his eyes away, focusing on the magic that simmered weakly through his veins. He must have fallen asleep, because the next time he looked around, the sun shone into the shed at a different angle. The woman was gone. The ugly old bastard, though, was still there, but he looked even uglier now. Half his face had been eaten away. The wound on his shoulder was so deep, his arm was only attached to the rest of his body by a few thin sinews. His eyes were empty and dead and he shuffled around the shed towards the door without a second glance to the grizzly black and white picture in the box.

Daryl got up and banged his fists against the glass. That bastard couldn’t leave, not like that! He had to be fucking with him, if he thought he could just forget that he put Daryl in a damn moonshine jar!

But the thing only lifted his head for a second, then shuffled on, without a glance back.

Dejected, Daryl sunk down to the bottom. He would die in that pitiful jar. His magic would run out and he would die like an animal caught in a trap and forgotten.

The days went by without meaning. The sun came up and went down. The moon occasionally shone through the windows and later through the hole in the roof as well. Animals would come by, mostly owls or mice. But as soon as the latter realized that Daryl wasn’t alone and that there was something in the shadows hunting them, they kept away. The owls, the self-loving bastards, lost interest in Daryl as soon as they realized the mice scurrying around. 

Traitors.

What Daryl needed would be a fox or a crow. Something cunning. But neither ever showed up and Daryl’s magic flickered and faded like a candle running out of wax. His best option was to save on his energy for the unlikely event that something did come here and would be able to set him free. So Daryl pulled the plug on his consciousness and drifted off like a bear succumbing to hibernation. 

The creaking of a floorboard was what brought him finally back. Daryl had to blink several times to understand that he had slept through the winter. The shed looked sadder than ever. The walls were soaked with melted snow and rainwater. The armchair was torn apart, just like the rug. The cupboards had been emptied on the floor. Stuff was strewn everywhere, flipped over and thrown away.

A man stood in the middle of the shed, looking carefully around. He wasn’t that tall, but maybe that was just the coat he was wearing, giving off a false image. Long hair was covered with a woolen hat. Daryl couldn’t see his face, since the man had turned his back on him, but he was certain, his eyes weren’t dead like the old bastard’s. 

He pulled a backpack off his shoulder, as he carefully stepped around a pile of broken glass to rifle through the things on the counter. The man worked calmly, but quickly, scanning the goods and stuffing the ones he deemed useful into his backpack. Daryl was so enrapt to ever see a human again that he realized belatedly with a start that the man would come over to his shelf in the end. There was no way he would miss his little jar and him trapped inside.

Daryl balled his fists, ready for a fight he knew he couldn’t win. But he would be damned if he at least wouldn’t try to get out of here.

Daryl held his breath, as the man came closer. His gaze swept over the jar and then beyond it. Came back and focused on him. Daryl froze. His magic frizzled weakly, barely visible around his fists. A gloved hand was extended and then his jar was taken off the shelf. The most mesmerizing blue-green eyes Daryl had ever seen on a human stared inside.

This man was neither old nor ugly. If Daryl had taken a moment to really look, he would have come to the conclusion that this human was friendly and might want to help him. But as pent up as he was, he just saw the other hand moving to the lid, and he let his magic explode around him. With the force of a bullet he shot out of the glass, catapulting himself far further into the air than he had anticipated. He hadn’t expected the man to actually open the jar. He had willed the man to lift the lid just a little to push his way out with the rest of his magic.

As it was, Daryl shot so close into the air to the man’s face that he yelped in surprise and took a step back. The moonshine jar fell to the ground and splintered into a million pieces at the same time as Daryl’s magic exploded out of him. He didn’t know if it was because he was cramped inside that small space, forced into his smallest form for so long or if he had actually overdone it with his magic. But Daryl hit the wall with a loud thud and then slumped unceremoniously to the sodden ground, hitting the floor in his human shape.

Something buzzed through the air close by his ear and dug itself in the wooden wall behind him with a dull clunk.

Daryl’s head was spinning and he had a hard time to orientate himself. The stubs of his wings whirred uselessly, trying to get him off the ground.

“Oh my God.”

Daryl’s head snapped up at that sound. It was so strange hearing words again. The man in the coat stared at him with an open mouth, eyes raking over him. With shame Daryl realized that he was not only staring at his wings, but at his body as well. At the scars and the tattoos under his dirty, filthy skin.

Daryl stared at him, deciding where to move and when. He was shaking, so he had only one chance to bolt. Crouching low on the floor wasn’t the best point to start off. The man had a knife in his hand. Most likely there was another in the wall behind him. If he had thrown like this after being startled, Daryl didn’t want to know how his aim was when he had time to focus.

He wouldn’t be imposed again. He wouldn’t be stuffed inside a jar again. He would fight and if it was the last thing he did in his life. His hand closed around a sherd of glass.

Then the man raised his hands and slowly put the knife down. “Easy, I’m not going to hurt you, okay?”

Daryl sneered at him. Sure as.

“My name is Paul. I’m going to help you.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes as the man – Paul – slowly opened his backpack and stuck his hand inside. Daryl’s grip around the sherd tightened and something sticky trickled down his fingers. Paul pulled his hand out again. He held a water bottle that he offered Daryl like a man offered a starving dog a bone to get him come closer.

As Daryl didn’t move, Paul knelt down and rolled the bottle over. It hobbled over the junk on the floor and bumped into Daryl’s left knee. He could practically smell the fresh water through the plastic. Daryl’s dry throat swallowed around nothing. Never taking his eyes off Paul, who still knelt on the floor with him, he reached for the bottle. It was tricky to twist the cap open with the cut in his hand from the sherd, but he did manage. 

The first drop tasted sweet like honey. Daryl stilled, watching Paul, waiting for his reaction, but he still just stared at Daryl with huge eyes. Then Daryl gulped down the rest of the water in almost one go. Water drippled over his chin, but it felt amazing.

“Are you hungry?”

Daryl dared to take a quick look around. His eyes flitted over the trash at the ground, the broken table with the broken box. It showed no more pictures. Between blankets and pillows overgrown with mold something peeked out that made Daryl still with a pounding heart. He looked as bored as possible back to Paul while sitting down slightly more to the left than necessary. 

“I have some stale crackers,” Paul said, rummaging in the backpack again. He tossed Daryl a brightly yellow colored bag. It was now or never. Daryl jumped forward and stretched towards the pile, grabbing between the soggy, stinking pillows and pulled the crossbow out in one swift motion.

“Shit!”, cursed Paul at the same time the door burst open and those things staggered in. Daryl had no idea where they were suddenly coming from, but Paul cursed again under his breath, leapt to his feet and threw a knife that he still wore on his belt. Daryl knew he couldn’t trust him.

One of the things went down with a knife in his head, but four more stumbled in, groaning and moaning. Paul moved back, but instead of panicking, he kicked up his foot, bringing one of the walking corpses down. Despite himself, Daryl was impressed. Then he swung the crossbow around and fired. The arrow still notched went through the rotten skull of the first one and straight between the eyes of the one behind it. The last one didn’t seem to care or understand that his friends were being taken down and that it would be better to leave. Instead the thing came towards Daryl, who swung the crossbow hard enough to smash its skull in.

He heaved. That little action had taken almost all the energy out of him that the water had given him in the first place. Belatedly and with dread coiling in his stomach he realized that he had turned his back to Paul, completely forgetting about him. He swirled around, crossbow raised, but without a bolt that was a pretty useless gesture.

“I know I should probably be grossed out, but that was kinda hot.”

What?

Daryl stared at Paul, who stared back almost as shocked. Paul hadn’t lied. It was impossible to lie to a fae, that was why humans used bait to lure them in. Faes couldn’t be convinced if you weren’t a master of the tongue and twisting words was your passion, or truthful in your intentions. 

Paul meant that. Daryl felt the tips of his ears grow hot as he realized that he was standing butt-naked in front of a man, whose eyes just snapped back up from Daryl’s crotch. Yeah, faes and intentions. Wonderful.

“Well, forget that. Please. I – uhm, thank you. For helping me.”

Daryl slowly lowered the crossbow.

“Do you have a name?”

Daryl hesitated. Giving a human his name was dangerous. Names were powerful. But Paul had the chance to get the drop on him and didn’t. Beside from hiding a knife from his view, Paul hadn’t lied. And Daryl needed help. The crossbow was already too heavy in his hands.

“Daryl.”

“Hi, Daryl. Nice to meet you.” The smile on Paul’s face was warm and genuine. Daryl felt his magic flutter back to life just from seeing it.


	11. K for Karaoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never bet against your family.

“Come on, Daryl, you promised!”

“If you’re gonna try to chicken out, I’ll strap you to this chair, I promise!”

“Gambling debts are debts of honor!”

Daryl groaned, trying frantically to find a way out of the miserable hole he had himself dug into. His whole family was over him, poking and prodding and insisting.

Why? Why couldn’t he just shut his big mouth? The beer had been a horrible idea.

“You know, they are right, yeah?” Rick grinned at him and Daryl wanted to kick his ass. 

“Yer a fuckin’ traitor, ya know that?”

Rick just grinned broader, leaning back into the old couch with Michonne plastered at his side. Daryl threw them both dark looks.

He should have fucking known. Of course Tara and Paul both knew every single goddamn pop song within ten seconds one of his family members started singing on the old karaoke machine. Daryl had always made a wide berth around that hellish thing whenever he paid Barrington House a visit during community dinners that were now held inside, because the September evenings were already uncharacteristically freezing. Three weeks ago Emma, Patrick and Paul had brought the dang thing back from one of their runs and it was an instant hit. Despite having better things to do, Eugene instantly fixed the machine up with a rechargeable battery connected to solar panels. So since three weeks, there was crude singing and laughter coming from the house.

Tonight, with the Alexandrian delegation visiting and staying over, the Hilltop’s folk had generously given up their beloved karaoke machine for their leaders’ families. Daryl for once hadn’t minded being crowded inside. He was glad to shoot the shit with Rick over a few beers, while the rest of his family made a fool of themselves singing old, cheesy songs. Glenn had been horrible, but his enthusiasm was not from this world. Eugene had no sense for rhythm, but he was so into it that it was hard not to laugh at him. Michonne had a captivating, rich voice and everyone applauded her loudly, especially Rick. Daryl had definitely not seen him look with those bedroom eyes at her. Tara shouted more than she sung, but Rosita, Sasha and Maggie could have started off as a girly band, as far as Daryl was concerned. They were surprisingly good, just as Paul and to Daryl’s horror, Abe.

It was probably the beer combined with an awful off-key performance from Rick, that made Daryl snort and say: “No one would ever recognize that shit, stop makin’ my ears bleed!”

Of course, instantly Tara and Paul had nailed him down by shouting that yes, they could and before Daryl knew what was happening, they made that shit into a bet and now he sat there in utter disbelief as his family shouted for him to pay his debt. 

“That ain’t no bet!” he tried to argue, but it was no use.

Tara pushed the microphone already into his face. “Don’t be a sour loser! Everyone took already a turn, it’s only fair!”

“Here, let me check the book for you.” Sasha grabbed the book with the listed songs and flipped it open. 

Abe glanced over her shoulder and tipped on the page. “What about that? Should be your song, Daryl. Country Roads …?” He wiggled his eyebrows, while Sasha snickered.

“Fuck you, man!” Daryl leaned over and grabbed the damn book himself. He downed the beer in three gulps as he quickly scanned the titles. If they wanted to poke the bear, they had to deal with the fucking song Daryl choose to annoy them with.

Thankfully, neither he nor his family was sober anymore, otherwise Daryl would have never agreed to this bullshit and walked out of the door, their hollering and calling him a pussy be damned.

“Fine, number 124.”

Rosita eagerly punched the number into the system.

Daryl grabbed the microphone from a grinning Tara and the bottle of beer out of Paul’s hands. He chugged that down as well under heavy protests from Paul. “See if yer know this one as well”, he rasped as he pushed the empty bottle back to Paul. Then he turned around, because seeing their faces was just too much.

Daryl wasn’t much of a singer, but with enough alcohol, combined with the right atmosphere and people around him, he was tempted enough to forget about that. Of course, in the past there hadn’t been many occasions. But one or two times, after a thrillingly good football game on TV he had watched with Merle and the gang at a bar, without the usual bullshit happening, they had chanted their hymns. Merle had been so happy those times, ruffling Daryl’s hair and grinning, saying: “This voice of yers is something, baby brother!”

So, maybe Daryl was drunk and maybe he just missed having Merle with him, here between the people he called his family, alive and grinning, being proud of Daryl. And if so? Fuck it. Fuck everyone.

_“The pictures tell the story, this life had many shades, I'd wake up every morning and before I'd start each day, I'd take a drag from last night’s cigarette that smoldered in its tray, down a little something and then be on my way.”_

Daryl could feel them freezing behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tara gaping at him with her mouth wide open.

God, he just should have betted on that. Shutting them up this quickly. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and he felt unusually cheeky as he sang the next verse. He didn’t even really need the lyrics scrolling over the screen. One of Merle’s more enjoyable friends had been a huge fan and every fucking Saint Patrick’s Day or any game day really, he had belted out that song until the others shut him up. Daryl had loved that song. Although he would never admit it for the sake of his life to Merle’s face.

_“Some may be from showing up, others are from growing up; sometimes I was so messed up and didn't have a clue.”_

Daryl didn’t know what stupidity possessed him, but he turned around to his family that sat with big eyes and big grins around him and threw his raised middle finger in their direction.

_“I ain't winning no one over, I wear it just for you, I've got your name written here in a rose tattoo.”_

Big mistake. Big, fucking, dumb mistake. Paul stared back at him with dark, dangerous eyes. Daryl’s heart leapt into his throat and he felt hot and cold all over. This thing between them simmered through occasionally, much to Daryl’s irritation. Paul fucked around with him, made jokes on his expanse and threw flirty smiles his way just to rile him up.

Or so Daryl thought. What would Paul do with a greasy old redneck like him anyway?

But Paul had never looked at him like he wanted to eat him alive.

Daryl didn’t even know he was singing anymore. Apparently he did, because suddenly Tara was there, pulling the mic halfway to her and shouting the lyrics into his ear. Glenn whooped and stumbled over as well and not before long Daryl had half his family hanging on his back to bawl the song together.

It got loud and Daryl feared for his life as they pulled him up and jumped around to the chorus. Maggie hung on his neck, planting a kiss on his cheek, before Glenn pulled her over, laughing and kissing her soundly to the chants of another round of _“in a rose tattoo, in a rose tattoo, I’ve got your name written here, in a rose tattoo!”_

After the song ended, Daryl disentangled himself from various arms. Tara and Eugene took the mic, already selecting a new song, but Daryl was up and out of the house in a heartbeat. He needed air. He needed to breathe.

Paul’s eyes haunted him and he savagely wished for a cigarette. Hell, he shouldn’t have drunken this much. He should have said no to Tara and her shenanigans. He shouldn’t – 

“Daryl? Daryl, wait!”

Shit.

Daryl kept walking briskly, although he knew he couldn’t really flee. Not from Paul.

“Would you please – Daryl!” 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around. Paul walked almost into his chest. “What?”, he snapped. He didn’t want to hear more jokes or cheeky comments or any of the bullshit Paul usually blew his way.

“You won me over.” Paul was breathing harshly and in the dark his face was damn unreadable.

“What?” Daryl blinked confused. Paul didn’t make any sense.

“You said, you ain’t winning no one over. You won me over,” Paul repeated. “A long time ago.” 

“But that’s just some stupid song –“

“Don’t ruin it, Daryl. We’re having a moment,” whispered Paul. He grabbed Daryl’s upper arms, halfway pulled Daryl down and himself up, kissing him heatedly. 

Daryl didn’t argue. Instead, he slid his hands around Paul’s waist after a moment and kissed him back. No use to waste that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Rose Tattoo by Dropkick Murphys


	12. L for Limerick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some fluff. Modern setting

Judith flopped down on the kitchen chair with a groan.

“Don’t whine, Judy. You know you could’ve done that three hours ago.”

Judith threw Paul a dark look as she pulled out her English book and smacked it down on the table. “I already told you, limericks are stupid. I’m no poet! How should I come up with anything?”

Paul shrugged as he turned around, two cans of beer in one hand and in the other a soda, which he dropped down beside her elbow. “You don’t need to come up with anything. Just take a look around and let it inspire you!”

With that, he left her alone in the kitchen to join Daryl on the couch. “That’s not really a help, you know!”, she hollered after him, glaring daggers at his back. Paul just grinned over his shoulder as he flopped down on the couch, passing Daryl one of the beer cans, and blew her a kiss.

Asshole.

Judith pulled the textbook closer and flipped it open to the page with tons of examples for limericks. That homework was just stupid. Paul was stupid. Limericks were stupid. She glared at the book. Of course Paul had been right. If she had sat her ass down right after school to mull over her homework, she might be done by now and could join her uncles on the couch, watching the news and nagging them to switch to a movie later. She could be munching on chips right now.

Deep down, Judith knew that she wasn’t mad at Paul not helping her, but at herself. But texting with Cathy for two hours seemed more important this afternoon than limericks. She sighed and flipped her pad of paper open, staring gloomily at the examples again.

What the hell should she write about? These limericks were all kind of funny or witty. No way she could come up with anything like that.

Judith glanced up, trying to give Paul’s advice some credit and let her be inspired by her surroundings. But the kitchen was just a kitchen with some dirty dishes in the sink and a bowl of apples on the counter. There was a magnetic whiteboard with a shopping list and some photos of Paul and Daryl, Rick, Michonne, Carl and herself. The garbage bin was a bit overflowing. The only unusual thing in this kitchen was the hunter knife next to the ordinary kitchen knives on the magnetic knife holder.

She sighed, looking over to the living room. Daryl was sprawled over the couch with his feet on the opposite armrest. He still had some oil streaks on his forearms that wouldn’t wash off with regular soap. Paul was draped over Daryl, zapping through the channels, while absently playing with Daryl’s fingers.

Despite her grudge against her homework, a smile appeared on her face. Judith still remembered the days when Daryl would scoff at Paul and his antics, and Paul getting frustrated with Daryl’s brusque and standoffish behavior. It had literally taken years, an ugly fight with Merle and one too many shots at Maggie’s birthday party five years ago for them to finally realize that they had feelings for each other. It had taken almost another half a year after the birthday party incident, as Tara liked to refer to finding them both making out behind the barn, for them to date officially. 

Judith grinned at the memory of the family dinner, where Daryl had shown up not only _with_ Paul, taking one car instead of arriving separately, but holding his hand as well. 

On the couch, Paul had settled for some documentary about Patagonia. Daryl’s hand was in his hair, massaging the scalp absent-mindedly. Paul groaned, burying his head further against Daryl’s chest, before he tipped his head up to place a peck on Daryl’s lips. Daryl smiled and returned the kiss.

Watching her uncles trade lazy kisses on the couch, gave Judith an idea. She grinned, as she looked down at her pad, scribbling the first lines. 

_Take a look around for inspiration. Good tip, Paul. Now deal with the results._

Judith scribbled and scratched lines again for almost half an hour, but in the end, she was actually pleased with her little limerick.

“Hey, Judy, ya done yet?”, called Daryl from the couch, glancing over. “There’s no point in my niece bein’ over if she hides in the kitchens the whole evenin’.”

“Daryl, she’s doing homework,” replied Paul lazily. 

“I’m done!” Judith grabbed her work and walked into the living room. “Wanna hear it?”

Daryl pulled his legs off the couch and shoved Paul practically into his lap to give Judith some space on the couch, too. “Sure. What is it?”

“A limerick. A silly nonsense rhyme.”

“That yer homework? I had to do math and shit.”

Paul smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Shhh, I wanna hear our poet.”

Judith snuggled against the armrest, squeezing herself cross-legged between her uncles’ limbs. Grinning, she read: 

_“It took my uncles nearly a decade_   
_To realize that stupid game they played_   
_Is called being smitten with each other._   
_Now these two don’t even bother_   
_To be ashamed that they made us wait.”_

“Yer not gonna turn that in!”, protested Daryl with slightly red ears.

“Why not? I like it!”, grinned Paul. 

Daryl groaned in defeat, which just made Judith grin broader. “I hate ya two so much.”

“No, you don’t!”, laughed Judith and Paul in unison.


	13. M for Motor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: naughty boys

“The wires run down here …”

“Yeah, but why? And what has it to do with the fuckin’ clutch cable?”

“The hell do I know, Dixon. Is that here fuse-protected?”

Daryl huffed as pulled himself out from under the jacked up car to peer under the open hood. He fumbled with some tubes, then cursed loudly.

“What’s wrong?”, asked Mina, crawling back out from under the car as well. She wiped her greasy hands on her pants, pushing her wild curls back with an annoyed huff and smearing some oil on her forehead in the process.

“Damn fuse-box sits behind the head light.”

Mina leaned over and peered down into the motor compartment as well. “You need to remove it to get to the fuse box? What kind of engineer constructed that?”

“Fuckin’ hate foreign models,” Daryl mumbled as he wiped a hand across his forehead. It was hot as hell today and working in a shed with a tin roof didn’t help, although the gate was wide open. Daryl even had resigned to Mina’s nagging and pulled his hair out of his sweaty neck with a hair tie for the unlikely event of some fresh breeze coming in.

“I’ll get us some water.” Mina dropped her rag on the floor. “I could work naked and it still would be too hot.”

“Don’t ya dare fuckin’ do that.”

“Do what?” asked Mina innocently.

“Get naked while workin’. Damn safety hazard.” Daryl dived under the hood and fumbled with a clip that was rusted like hell.

Mina leaned against the car, grinning down at him. “Why, you’re gonna get a heart attack, Dixon?”

Daryl threw her a dark glance. “Ya could slit yerself open is what I meant, woman. Those fuckin’ panties aren’t nearly enough to protect yer from acid fluids or burns –“

“Aw, you’re worried about me!”

“Shut up,” said Daryl without any heat, struggling with the next rusty screw. “Didn’t ya wanted to get some water and turn the heads of folk out there?”

Mina patted him on the shoulder, grinning. “No need to be jealous. Besides, I know whose head you’re turning.”

Daryl groaned. If they had this particular conversation one more time, he would get the earmuffs. He didn’t regret sharing his little secret with Mina. She had been more than suspicious as Daryl offered his help with the vehicles at Hilltop for the first time, but that was understandable. Mina wasn’t just beautiful. She was the kind of woman men drooled over as some fantasy come to life. Of course she hadn’t taken Daryl seriously when he had told her that wasn’t why he had offered his help, because apparently that was an overused line Mina had heard one too many times already. So Daryl had bitten the bullet and bluntly told her that he was gay. Since that moment, Mina was his friend. A damned skilled friend when it came to cars, trucks and everything with an engine, and a mouth dirtier than Daryl’s shirts had ever been.

“Leave already!”

Mina laughed and pushed herself off the car. “Yes, sir!” In the entranceway, she almost collided with a shadow. “Hey, Jesus,” she said, giving him a wink just because. “He’s inside.”

“Hey, yeah, thanks.” Paul blinked at her retreating back, before he entered the shed. It was like stepping into a sauna. His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the slightly dimmer light and he felt already a bead of sweat running down his temple.

Daryl stood bend under the open hood, wrenching at something and cursing under his breath.

“Hey,” Paul called out softly as not to startle him. “I was looking for you. Ahm, could you help me with-“

Daryl straightened at the sound of his voice, turning around while rubbing at his hands and arms with a red rag.

Paul stared. He had never seen Daryl like this. The strands of his unruly hair were tied back. Sweat glistened at his bare arms, highlightening the muscles in the soft shadows. He wore a black wife beater that had a tear near the seam and clung to his body with sweat. 

He looked like one of the men photographed for certain magazines. Magazines Paul had used profusely for his alone-time.

“Help ya with what?” Daryl asked.

Paul’s mouth worked but nothing came out.

“Paul? Ya alright?” Daryl furrowed his brows and stepped closer.

Paul let out a shaky little breath as Daryl’s eyes swept over his body. Daryl stopped abruptly an arm’s length away, dropping his gaze and scratching his neck. The muscles in his upper arm bulged at the movement. “I, uhm, don’t think that’d be a good idea right now.”

Paul finally found his voice again. “What?”

Daryl gazed at him from behind his bangs. Then he gestured at Paul. 

Paul had no idea what was suddenly going on and glanced down at himself like some idiot. 

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

The bulge in his pants was more than obvious. 

“Oh, oh my, God, Daryl, I,” sputtered Paul, covering the front of his pants, “sorry, I’m really sorry, that wasn’t what I – you’re just really sexy like that –“

Daryl snorted. “’m all sweaty and dirty.”

Paul laughed breathlessly without any real humor, face glowing like a fireball. “Yeah, exactly.”

Daryl stared at him and Paul took a step backwards. 

“Look, I’m really sorry about this, Daryl. I really didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Yer serious.”

Paul’s face got hot all over again. “As I already said, it wasn’t my intention to –“

Daryl moved forward and Paul took another step back, but Daryl walked past him, grabbed the sliding door and pulled it close. Then he moved right into Paul’s space and backed him against the wall. Paul swallowed, half expecting a mortified hiss to keep it down. They hadn’t exactly talked about boundaries and – 

Daryl sank down on his knees, tugging Paul’s pants open with jerky movements. Paul stared down, ready to keel over. Daryl looked back up with dark eyes and said: “Can’t let ya walk around the kids like that,” and swallowed Paul’s cock in one go.

Paul’s head knocked back against the wall as he tried to stifle the moan that was escaping him. It didn’t take long for him to thrust his hands in Daryl’s hair, yanking urgently and whispering: “God, Daryl, Daryl, I’m gonna –“

Daryl hummed and pressed his nose down in Paul’s sparse hair around his groin, pressing a finger against Paul’s entrance. 

The orgasm ripped through Paul and he nearly bent himself in half as he practically collapsed on top of Daryl. Daryl pulled off his cock with a filthy plop, swallowed and smirked.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” mumbled Paul. He grabbed Daryl’s face and kissed him open-mouthed and dirty. “You’re so gonna get laid tonight.”

Daryl grinned and pushed Paul gently back to a standing positon. “Don’t promise what ya can’t keep.”

Paul pulled his pants back up. “Oh, I’m intent on keeping it.”

Daryl shook his head as he got back to his feet as well, blushing. They stared at one another for a short moment, before Paul leaned in and kissed Daryl again. “My trailer. Come by whenever you’re ready.”

Daryl nodded and watched Paul pulling the sliding door back open. Mina sat outside in the grass, a bucket of water by her feet. Daryl quickly turned around and dove under the hood again, as she grinned up at Paul with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Bye, Jesus!” she shouted after him, before she got up and swaggered into the shed with the bucket in her hand. “You are so turning his head, Dixon.”

Daryl groaned as the damn rusted clip broke right off.


	14. N for Net

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern Day/Fantasy AU

“Why can’t they just take their fucking stuff back with them when they leave? They brought it here, so what’s the problem taking it back home again?” 

Paul throws another empty bottle in the black garbage bag that is already half full. He only has wanted to grab the huge, ugly foil fluttering over his beach section, but he can’t stop when he spots yet another empty cigarette box, another empty bag of chips, another broken bottle, another _shoe_ , for God’s sake, and another this and another that. He bags everything with his mood turning sourer with every piece of garbage he spots.

He just can’t understand people. They come here to have a nice day in the sun and they leave it like they don’t care at all that they are going to roll around in their own trash. Paul actually should do that. Let everything just where it is and watch them complain and turn up their noses. 

But the thing is, nothing stays where it is at a beach. The waves are rolling endlessly, sucking foil wrappings and the plastic rings of six-packs of beer right back in the water, where animals get tangled in the mess, can’t free themselves and suffer and die from that stupid shit. The wind picks up everything that isn’t too heavy, and blows it everywhere – into the underbush, into the ocean or right at Paul’s doorstep of his lighthouse.

He just can’t leave it like that. He just can’t.

“Oh, for fuck’s –“ Paul puts the garbage bag down and reaches for the torn net that has wound itself around the sharp, little boulders that grow out of the sand like some teeth.

It’s not just the people at the beaches, who seek relaxation and fun. No, it’s the fishermen as well and that just _pisses_ Paul off. Because they should know better. They live from the ocean. They should have a goddamn vigorous interest in keeping the ocean clean and healthy. They make money with everything they pull out of it. But as far as Paul knows, fishermen are the worst. Torn nets, wastewater, diesel, scraps of entrails, empty oilcans, dead fish, fucking cigarette butts. Everything goes overboard. 

Sometimes, Paul wants to walk to the harbor, shake them and ask them if their mothers have bathed them too hot in their childhood or what the fuck is wrong with them. He never does, though. Instead, he cleans the beach as good and as often as he can. It does little, but at least it does something. Or that is what he tells himself.

Paul grabs the net and tugs, but it doesn’t come off. It is much bigger than what he first expects, so he tugs it free carefully and rolls it up as he slowly walks around the boulders. Then he sees it.

Something has been caught in the net, something big. The breaking of waves splashes water over its body, but still Paul can see the wounds. The net has cut into its skin cruelly, tearing open skin in long gashes with blood still oozing out, but Paul can’t tell if the animal is still alive or has died on the beach. He puts the net down and carefully inches closer, moving slowly to the left and around the animal to get a better look at it. 

It is huge. The tail is covered in dark blue, slightly shimmering scales Paul has never seen before. The fins look sharp and deadly, like weapons. A broken off harpoon sticks deep in its flank.

_What the hell …?_

Paul finally comes face to face with the animal and stops in shock. Not an animal. A creature. A _mer._

As close as Paul lives by and with the ocean, he has never seen a mer in his life. There are stories, of course, from fishermen, treaded drunkenly in pubs, or the local tales, pimped for the tourists, or even worse, the cinematic romanticization about love that fights against every resistance. 

But he has never seen a real mer.

The creature in front of him doesn’t look much human. Not like the movies want to make you believe that there really are creatures, which are half human and half fish, that smile and look like you. Paul can’t even tell, if the mer is male or female. It lies on its belly, tangled in the net that twists one arm probably painfully sideways, with its hand in an unhealthy looking angle. 

As far as comparisons between movies and the reality go, Paul can at least agree to the basic concept of how mers are supposed to look. It has a long, fishlike tail that grows were legs should have been. It has two arms with two hands on an upper body that looks halfway human, if you are willing to ignore the spikes running along its forearms, the webbing between its fingers and underneath its armpit or the murky, bluish color of its thick looking skin. Dark hair that looks thicker and heavier than Paul’s splays wildly around a head that is vaguely human-shaped.

Paul crawls closer. Is the mer still breathing?

Without any preamble, the mer lunges forward, its mouth wide open in a furious snarl that shows rows upon rows of small, sharp teeth. Something wet hits Paul in the face as he stumbles backwards in shock. The wet glob on his cheek burns like hell and Paul hastily wipes at it, flicking a green looking dollop against some stones. Teeth snap right before his nose and Paul scrambles over the sharp stones, his cheek burning and his hands screaming were he cuts them open on the rocks.

The furious hissing ends abruptly in a strangled, pained gasp.

Paul’s heart is still beating a mile a minute as he watches the mer struggle against the net. The lines bite deeper into its skin the more it fights against it.

“Hey.” The word comes out croaked and broken. Paul swallows and tries again. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The mer hisses and spits. Something green lands before Paul’s feet, burning a little hole through a seashell that lies there. 

Motherfucker. That motherfucker is poisonous!

“I can help you, but you need to stop that shit, alright? No spitting!”

The mer stills and watches Paul with entirely black eyes. Its face is more human than Paul had expected, with a flatter nose maybe, but the facial features are almost the same. High cheekbones and small eyes, a strong jawline and most surprising – little fins that poke through its hair like a pair of ears sticking out adorably.

Despite his words, Paul stays where he is, staring at the mer. He is not sure the creature actually understands him. Why should it? Paul wouldn’t understand anyone speaking Cantonese to him, let alone another species entirely. 

The mer makes a weird clicking noise. Paul presses himself against the rocks, waiting for another nasty, slimy fluid flung his way. But nothing happens.

They stare at each other, unmoving. The waves crash over the mer occasionally, washing away the blood oozing from its wounds. A seagull cries and lands some feet away on the tip of the rocks.

Carefully, Paul straightens and crouches towards the mer. His heart jumps nervously as he raises his hands slowly in a placating manner, although he doubts whether the mer does know what it means. But he hopes it comes across as unthreatening. 

In a low squat, he slowly approaches the mer. He eyes the net that is tangled in a hopeless disarray around the body. Paul knows he has but one chance to free the mer. He needs to cut it loose. Oh so slowly, he reaches for the little knife at his belt. 

The eyes of the mer follow his movement. Its upper lip is drawn back in a light snarl, but it doesn’t hiss or spit, which Paul counts as a win.

“I need to cut you out of there, alright?” He knows that speaking to the mer is probably pointless in ways of communication, but Paul hopes that his voice will soothe it just like any other animal. Although the mer is the furthest thing from ‘any other animal’ Paul can think of. “I will use this knife to cut the net.”

He slowly pulls the knife out, presenting it to the mer with only two fingers around the handle. That clicking noise again. It dawns suddenly on Paul that this might be the mer’s way of communicating with him.

He swallows, as the mer eyes the knife, then Paul again. But it doesn’t move an inch otherwise. He needs to be much closer than this.

Paul kneels down in the wet sand and leans forward. Net or not, the mer would be perfectly able to spit his poison right into Paul’s eyes, grab his head and bite off any part of him that stands out, or twist and whack Paul upside down with its tail, smashing him with his head against the sharp rocks. But the mer doesn’t move an inch.

Paul grabs the first string and slowly brings the knife up close to the mer. His eyes flicker between the net in his hand and the face of the mer, who is still snarling silently. The material of the net is sturdier than it looks and Paul practically saws at thin, green rope. It takes forever, but finally, he cuts through.

Paul eyes the rest of the net. This is going to take way longer than he expects. He just hopes that the mer knows patience.

The water slowly moves up the beach as Paul works on the net. The wet sand below his knees has turned into shallow water by the time he has reached the mer’s back. The seagull on the rocks has company now, a crying chorus of laughter as though they find it funny how Paul awkwardly hovers over the mer as he tries to get rid of the net and not accidentally slip and faceplant into the deadly creature.

Up close, Paul can see a lot more disturbing details than he first has noticed. The spikes on the mer’s forearms have little barbed hooks and Paul doesn’t want to know their purpose or their toxicity. The arms of the mer are strong and bulging with muscle just like its back and Paul guesses he is looking at a male. The skin on his back is blueish and dark, with random spots in a brighter tone. Paul needs to touch it in order to pull the net off the mer and is surprised how rough it feels. He strokes over it again, the skin warm and lithe under his fingertips. The mer stiffens and Paul hurriedly goes back to cutting.

When Paul finally has cut through enough to lift the first part of the net off the mer’s neck and shoulders, he startles as the mer starts thrashing immediately. 

“No, no, wait!”

The net around the tail tightens and the mer hisses, arching his back as if trying to shake the net off like a snake might to get rid of its old skin. A dorsal fin raises before Paul’s eyes, with spikes as long as his forearm, rippling from between the mer’s shoulders down its tail. But it gets caught up in the net and Paul sees the thin skin between the spikes tearing.

“No! Stop! You’ll hurt yourself!” Without thinking, he places a hand on the mer’s shoulder.

He doesn’t have time to even understand what happens, when he finds himself pressed flat into the swallow water of the rising tide, with a hand with sharp claws around his neck and his face inches away from shark-like teeth and venomous spit. 

Paul tries not to panic. He isn’t the one caught in a net, unable to move and leave the wrong element. He knows that logically. But faced with his possible and painful end right here, it is only instinctual that he moves. He has practiced the moves on training mats ad nauseam and he just reacts. Throwing something off him without legs to use as a hook and far heavier than any of his sparring partners is different, but not impossible.

The mer grunts more in surprise than pain as Paul switches their position, pushing the mer into the sand and hissing to his face: “I’m just trying to help, goddammit! Would you please hold still?!”

Black eyes stare up at him. Paul freezes as he realizes what he just has done. He is sitting on a deadly creature that can slit him open with the flick of his hand, getting pissed because his rescue mission isn’t appreciated the way he expects.

The mer blinks. Something white covers his eyes for a second and then Paul stares down at eyes that are far more human. The iris a deep, clear blue and the white of the eye visible. A second eyelid. The mer blinks again, a flash of white, followed by all-black eyes for a moment and then back to blue.

Paul stares down with his mouth slightly open. The mer has stopped snarling, but watches Paul with intense eyes. Then he raises his hands and slowly puts them on Paul’s hips. Paul watches dazed, like this is a dream happening to someone else. He trails his eyes down over a pale chest and torso. Dark, blue spots trail over the underside of the mer in intricate patterns, twirling over his stomach and down his sides. Yeah, definitely a male. The chest is flat and muscles ripple under that pale skin that looks just like a ripped version of any underwear model Paul had ever drooled over.

Then he is suddenly pushed not so gently off and into the water beside the mer. Paul blinks the stinging salt water from his eyes. His nose burns as well from it. The mer beside him has rolled back onto his belly, but he stares at Paul as if waiting for something. Then the mer pushes the knife over to Paul from where he had dropped it.

Right.

He stares up at the mer, who just stares back unblinking. Slowly, Paul gets up on his feet again, shuffling over to the mer’s tail. He silently gets back to work, but he can feel the mer’s eyes on him the whole time. 

Paul works as fast as he can. For one, he doesn’t want to prolong the mer’s suffering. Second, the sun hides behind some clouds and the wind tugs at Paul’s wet clothes mercilessly. He shivers and tries to steady his shaking hands. He really doesn’t want to know what happens if he accidentally cuts the mer instead of the net.

Paul almost does cut him though. He concentrates on pulling away the net around the harpoon, as something sneaks under his hoodie. He almost jumps out of his skin at the contact. Whipping around, Paul stares at the mer, who stares back, frozen in his movement. 

Something warm blossoms underneath Paul’s skin where the hand of the mer touches his back. It radiates slowly from there, up his spine and into his arms and legs. Paul turns back to the task at hand. He cuts the remaining net away and pulling it gently out of the wounds on the tail. He tries to ignore how cozy he feels with that hand on his back, the warmth creeping back into his fingers and toes.

The hand vanishes when Paul pulls the rest of the net off the mer. His damp clothes cling cold and clammy to his skin immediately. Paul eyes the wounds the net has left with a mix of worry and determination. They need to be washed and attended to, maybe even stitched. The harpoon needs to come out, too. But before Paul can so much as lift a finger, the mer turns around on his hands and with a last glance back to Paul, he pushes himself with his strong tail into the waves, wiggles a bit as waves crash over his head and suddenly, he is gone.

Paul stares at the ocean that moves innocently just like always without a hint what lurks beneath its surface. If the bloodied net wouldn’t lie next to Paul in the tide, he would actually doubt himself what he just has seen. What he has felt with his own hands.

As the next wave crashes over the sharp rocks next to him, Paul hurriedly collects the rests of the cut net and walks over to his garbage back. Enough for one day. He needs a nice, hot shower and he really needs to look at his own cuts and the burning point on his cheek.

The seagulls laugh after him as he walks by, garbage bag over his shoulder. His eyes don’t see the beach or the lighthouse. They still see those eyes shifting from pitch-black to dark blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually debating whether or not I should continue this ...


	15. O for Overalls

“Hey, Jesus! Good to see you! Come on, take a seat!”

Paul grins at Aaron as he jogs up the three stairs to his porch, flopping down on the offered rickety chair. “Hey, Aaron, how’s it going?”

“Not bad! Apple?” He offers Paul a slice of what must be hundreds already in a large bucket at his feet.

“No, thank you!” laughs Paul and waves him off. “I just came from Rosita’s, she stuffed me with her little wraps!”

“Oh, yeah, she says they still don’t taste like anything remotely Mexican, but she is still proud,” grins Aaron. “Although I really can’t see them anymore.”

“What are you making?” asks Paul, nodding to the bucket.

“Applesauce. The trees in Melissa’s backyard just had tons of apples and we couldn’t let Eugene make cider of them all, so … yeah.”

Paul leans over his armrest. “Hey, I, ahm, I’ll be here for a few days. Would you mind if I bunk at yours for the night?”

Aaron throws him a sly grin. “Just bunking or -?”

Paul’s lips stretch into a toothy grin. “I won’t say no to more, if you’re –“

A happy squeak cuts through the drowsy afternoon atmosphere. On the street stands Judith in too big orange overalls. The legs are rolled up on her chubby legs so many times, it looks as if she has a set of swimming rings around her ankles. She sways on her feet, then gingerly puts one foot in front of the other, making her wobbly way over to Tara. Behind her stands Daryl, keeping her upright by holding her suspenders like a leash.

A snort bursts out of Paul at the sight. Big, dark Daryl looming behind the little sunshine, back halfway bent down over Judith to help her keep her balance.

“They’ve been doing that since morning. I already told Daryl Gracie is next.”

Paul turns back to Aaron, still grinning like an idiot. “And he didn’t shoot you?”

“Couldn’t, had already Judith at the leash, but I still got the finger,” laughs Aaron, snipping yet another slice of apple in his bucket.

Judith has reached Tara in the meantime, who coos over her. Daryl takes his chance to straighten his back with a pained expression.

“Getting old, Dixon?” quips Tara, squishing Judith’s chubby cheeks.

“Shut up.”

“I could take her for a while.”

“Darry! To Daddy!” shouts Judith just in that moment, squirming and tumbling out of Tara’s arms. Daryl’s hand shoots forward, gripping her by the back of her pants or else she would have fallen in the dirt. Judith doesn’t seem to notice, she is already trotting forward, Daryl hot on her heels.

Paul watches them slowly strolling down the road, stopping every so often so Judith can show Daryl the flowers in Smith’s garden, the butterfly dancing around her, a stone she finds on the street and greeting every person they encounter. Daryl follows her with all the patience in the world, not missing a beat when Judith takes another turn in the wrong direction.

“Alright, I should probably go and see Father Gabe. He wanted to give me something for Hilltop,” says Paul finally, when the pair is out of sight. He turns back to Aaron. “So, see you tonight?”

Aaron gives him a funny look. “Yeah, sure. But I won’t be mad, if you decide to not show up.”

Paul furrows his brows. “Why wouldn’t I show up?”

Aaron shrugs and grabs another apple. “I just meant you don’t have to feel obligated if your plans change. That’s all.”

“Alright?” Paul still doesn’t get it, but apparently Aaron is done explaining whatever weird thoughts have crossed his mind. “Okay, so, see you later.”

Paul skips down the roads to the church, where Father Gabriel is happy to see him. Aaron’s words are soon forgotten, especially as Paul is handed a dozen bibles for Hilltop. Some residents have asked for them, so they are good to have. Paul thanks him and stores them safely in the car that will take him back to Hilltop in three days. Next are Rick and Michonne, who he updates on the progress and the harvest of Hilltop. Denise is next, this time just for a chat and some books Dr. Harlan has found in the library and thinks useful for her. Paul stops by Chet and Sandy, Mrs. Worner and Gladys for more updates, gossip and food. Throughout the day, he can see Daryl and Judith walk each perimeter of Alexandria and each resident throws them amused glances.

Evening comes way faster than Paul has anticipated. Of course, he is invited to dinner at the Grime’s household, which includes also Enid and Daryl now. It is a delicious, happy meal, with roasted potatoes, some venison from Daryl’s last hunt, fresh cabbage and pumpkin and a delicious desert of crushed cornflakes, mashed berries and some honey. The wine is helping along, and Paul can’t remember seeing Daryl smile so often as he does this evening.

Long after the meal, Paul sits together with Rick, Michonne and Daryl, talking and sharing stories. Judith is already in bed, knocked out for good from the day, and Carl and Enid have vanished as well. 

“Is there more wine?” asks Michonne, shaking her empty glass in Rick’s direction.

“Those bottles empty already?” Rick stares with raised eyebrows at Michonne, but she just shrugs and throws him a lewd grin.

“Should be another in the kitchen,” says Daryl easily.

“I’m going!” volunteers Paul. He has to piss anyway, so that is a good reason as any. After using the bathroom on slightly unsteady legs, he trots over to the kitchen, almost bumping into Daryl on his way. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah, just gonna get some water.” Daryl ruffles through the cabinets in search of a jug, while Paul grabs the unopened bottle of wine. After sitting and laughing together in the living room, being alone together in the kitchen feels somehow weird. As if Paul needs to say something, but he has no idea what that could be.

Daryl fills his jug in the sink, grabbing the nape of his neck with the other hand, pressing his fingers into the flesh with a soft groan.

“Sore?”

Daryl hums. 

From the living room, Paul can hear Michonne and Rick giggle like teenagers. 

Paul puts the corkscrew down and walks over to Daryl without thinking much of it. Certainly it is the wine in his veins, because he would never have dared to put his hands on Daryl’s back sober. Daryl freezes under his touch, but Paul just works his fingers expertly into Daryl’s muscles.

Daryl’s whole back is tense for a moment, but then Paul hits a knot of hard muscles and Daryl goes pliant. His shoulders drop and he sways a bit on his feet, as Paul works on the muscles in his neck and down to his shoulder blades. 

It is oddly quiet in the kitchen, just Daryl’s even breathing and Paul’s pounding heartbeat in his ears.

The collar of Daryl’s dark shirt pulls down a bit with Paul’s moving fingers, exposing sun kissed skin and the gentle curve where Daryl’s neck meets his shoulders. Paul holds his breath, as he carefully, purposefully, tugs at the fabric, exposing even more skin. His fingers sneak over the collar. Paul bites his lip, as he touches the bare skin.

Daryl doesn’t move. He gives no sign that he knows what Paul is doing there, but he doesn’t object either.

Heart in his throat and alcohol flowing in his veins, Paul pushes both hands under the dark material, kneading the muscles without any barrier. Daryl’s skin is warm and smooth. His hair falls into his neck, despite hanging his head to give Paul better access. Every so often, Paul’s fingers brush over the strands and Paul wonders what they would feel like when he buries both his hands fully in them. He stands so close, he can feel the heat Daryl is emitting as though he is some furnace.

From the living room come distant whispers, a thud, more giggles, and then barely concealed scurrying and a door falling into its lock. The house stays quiet after this.

Paul’s fingers have stilled, frozen on Daryl’s neck, as Daryl has gone rigid at the noises. They stand in the dimly lit kitchen, the light from the living room barely making it over the hallway. Paul’s breath puffs over Daryl’s bare neck, but he can’t bring himself to step away. Daryl is right here, before his nose, tantalizing and out of reach at the same time, like he has been since day one.

“Aaron not waitin’ for ya?” Daryl’s voice is deep and raspy. It sends shivers down Paul’s spine.

Aaron’s words from this morning come back to him. 

“Why should he?” Paul whispers. The answer is right there, in the front of his mind and the tip of his tongue, but he can’t _focus_.

Daryl snorts quietly, still not turning around or stepping away. “You twos aren’t together or somethin’?”

Paul swallows. Licks his lips. “No. No we are not. We are just – really good friends.”

Daryl throws him a long, disbelieving look over his shoulder.

“We are,” states Paul more firmly. His hands fall away from Daryl’s back. He feels cold.

Daryl rolls his shoulders and a hand flies up his neck again, as he squeezes his eyes shut with furrowed brows. 

“I could give you a proper massage,” hears Paul himself say, “if you lay down.”

_Wait, what?_

Daryl looks at him again as if trying to solve a puzzle.

“Have seen you walking around with Judith in her orange overalls all day. Must have been hell on your back, slouching over the little missy.”

_Okay, Paul. Just shut your mouth. This is embarrassing._

Daryl doesn’t reply. 

“They say I have magic hands. I could really help you.” Paul picks at the cloth of Daryl’s shirt that sticks out at the back, wrinkled and creased from the day.

That doesn’t sound gay as hell. It isn’t gay as hell either.

People don’t take a look at his hands and declare them magic. ‘People’ are men and they claim Paul’s hands being magical when he has them wrapped around their dicks or up in their asses.

Paul wants the ground to swallow him alive. 

Daryl can’t possibly miss that. The plumb attempt at flirting. The very gay come-on. He will laugh or be disgusted or feel awkward as hell.

“Alright.”

_Wait, what?_

Daryl doesn’t say anything more, just finally steps out of Paul’s space and leaves the kitchen. Paul blinks dumbfounded into the dim light, before he follows him, dazed and feeling as if this isn’t happening.

The lamp in the living room flickers off and Paul is bathed in darkness. He can hear Daryl, though, walking on socked feet down the hallway. There is a door slightly open, almost invisible in the darkness. Paul walks straight towards it.

Daryl is in that room, but he doesn’t turn on any lights. The moon is just a thin sliver of light outside, so Paul can only see lighter and greyer shadows moving. Daryl stops halfway in the room, swaying a little on the spot, eyeing Paul and plucking at his fingers.

The door closes behind Paul.

It feels final. Like a decision irrevocably made.

They stare at each other in the darkness, with Paul’s heart hammering in his chest. His mouth feels dry. He should probably say something, like offering to leave Daryl in peace, if he isn’t into it anymore. Totally understandable. If he were a straight guy getting a massage offer from a gay man, he would have second thoughts and doubts, too.

Paul opens his mouth.

Daryl crawls on his bed, slumping down on his front with his head turned away from Paul.

Paul snaps his mouth shut. Takes a step over to the bed.

He should probably sit on the edge or a stool, leaning over. But this isn’t a massage bench. It is a bed.

A fucking bed.

The wine still makes his blood run hot and his head woozy. It really isn’t his fault. He is just helping. Just helping a friend.

Paul climbs on the bed and settles on Daryl’s legs, just right below his ass. 

He has sat like that on Aaron, just a few inches higher, only a few months ago. With fewer clothes and less tension, just letting off steam. He has felt, good, relaxed, enjoying himself then. Now, nerves coil in his stomach and tingle under his fingers, make his skin hot and tight and his mouth dry.

Paul wiggles out of his sweater and flings it to the floor, sitting in only his t-shirt in the dark. Daryl tenses up under him and Paul hums softly. 

“It’s just fucking warm in here.”

Daryl turns his head into the pillow. “It’s October, for Christ’s sake,” he replies, muffled.

Paul lets his hands travel lightly over the shirt still covering Daryl’s back, mapping him out in the dark. “Could you take that off?”

If Daryl has been tense before, he is now rock-solid rigid. If he wouldn’t have heard the rapid, harsh breathing, Paul would have wondered if Daryl has suffered a sudden heart attack and died.

“It’s easier that way. The cloth would just rub the skin raw, not helping to ease the pain in your muscles. Makes it uncomfortable, too,” says Paul quietly.

He expects Daryl to throw him off. This is overstepping so many boundaries at once. He is sure Daryl has enough of that farce. He is really pushing it here – Daryl is attractive in a rough and ruggedly way that has Paul fantasizing one or two times about getting fucked on the harder side of the scale. But Daryl still is a straight guy, who might tolerate Paul practically sitting on his ass in his bed in the respect of getting his sore back taken care of. Getting half naked for that is either painfully naïve (which sure as hell Daryl isn’t) or a step too far into rainbow-colored territory. 

Paul pushes to his knees to get off, apologize and leave, while his dignity is still somewhat intact.

Daryl grabs his shirt by the back of his collar, pulling it awkwardly over his head without getting up. He flings it to the side, burying his face back into his pillow, crossing his arms over his head as if trying to protect himself from words or fists.

Paul lets out a strangled breath, then slowly sinks back down.

Holy shit.

He tries to swallow.

He has no idea what happens or why Daryl suddenly trusts him like that. Probably the alcohol. Must be the alcohol.

With slightly trembling hands he strokes over Daryl’s exposed skin. His calloused fingers catch on scars. Big, long, nasty scars crisscrossing over Daryl’s whole back.

Holy shit.

Daryl’s shoulders and neck are hard with tension. Shallow breaths gasp into the silence.

Paul strokes over Daryl’s back again. His rough hands must feel like sandpaper.

Lotion would be awesome.

Shit, he should have thought of that. Even the oil from the kitchen could be helpful now. He doesn’t want to get up. He is sure, if he leaves now, Daryl will lock the door to his room and never face him again. Well, maybe not that, but he certainly wouldn’t agree to that again. To Paul in his bed, allowing him to touch his back.

“You, maybe, got something like oil?” he asks tentatively. Maybe Daryl has something for his crossbow in his room.

“Nightstand.”

Paul leans over, pulling the drawer open and feeling around it for a moment. A lighter. A box of tissues. Something sharp, probably an arrowhead. A small bottle. Paul pulls it out, squinting at the label. Hand moisturizer.

Heat spreads through him. 

Daryl isn’t the type to care whether the skin of his hands is baby-soft or not. He probably has the same if not worse calluses on his hands as Paul. 

Lotion and tissues. Both easy to grab while lying in bed.

Paul swallows and uncaps the bottle, pouring some of the moisturizer into his palm, then spreads it evenly over Daryl’s back in long, smooth strokes. Daryl still is stiff as a board under him, but Paul doesn’t mind. He works slowly, from Daryl’s lower back up to his neck and back down, first to spread the lotion further, then kneading the muscles one after the other.

It takes some time, but slowly Daryl relaxes. His arms slip from covering his head to a more comfortable position, hugging the pillow.

Paul digs his fingers into the muscles beside Daryl’s spine, traveling up and down.

Daryl turns his head, facing the window again, instead of staring straight into his pillow.

Paul works his way over to each shoulder blade, alternating between stroking and kneading the muscles, then up to the space right below his neck. As he hits a muscle that connects with his shoulder, Daryl groans pained. Immediately Paul reduces the pressure but keeps working the muscle until he can feel it loosening up.

His heart, though, doesn’t lose its rapid hammering.

Daryl sighs, shifting.

Paul’s hands wander over to his other shoulder. He doesn’t even register what his hands do. He watches Daryl’s face, a grey shadow in the dark, but he still can make out his features. Daryl has closed his eyes and his hair is falling across his forehead in wild curls. An ear is sticking out. His beard is dark in the night, but Paul knows there are silver lines already mixed with the darker shade. The beauty mark is prominent on his cheek.

Daryl opens his eyes as if sensing Paul’s stare. He is silent, just looking at Paul, who strokes softly over his neck.

Goddammit. 

This is wrong.

Paul’s fingers trail over the scars. They are bumpy and mean and old and Paul wants to kick whoever did that straight in the nuts.

He leans down and kisses the one running right under Daryl’s left shoulder blade.

There is a strangled sound, a shift, but not a word. Not to stop Paul. Not to get him off Daryl. Not to throw him out.

Paul kisses the next, running lower.

A shiver runs through Daryl. Still, no words come.

Paul closes his eyes, breathing shakily as he kisses higher, following Daryl’s spine.

His head spins. He feels hot and heady. His hands travel down Daryl’s shoulders to his biceps. He grips them, holding himself up.

Daryl turns his head, staring, mouth slightly agape. Paul stares back. Then leans in and kisses him on the mouth.

Daryl goes rigid, frozen.

Paul pecks him on the lips. His cheek. His beauty mark. His lips again.

Then Daryl’s lips move, slowly, tentatively, a bit out of sync, kissing him back.

The angle is awkward as fuck, but Paul doesn’t dare to move, too afraid, too lost, too shocked.

Daryl moves under him, turning his upper body towards Paul, into the kiss, and then there is a hand pushing Paul’s hair back carefully as if afraid it will hurt Paul.

Paul stops and swallows, staring at Daryl, who looks so young and vulnerable, almost scared. Paul wants the easy smiles from dinner back. The happiness dancing in his eyes.

He leans down again, slowly, eyes not leaving Daryl’s face, giving him time to come back to his senses and push him off. But Daryl doesn’t move. His hand is still in Paul’s hair, holding the curtain of strands back. 

Paul kisses him, really kisses him, not some pecks, but slow, soft kisses. Kisses that Daryl returns.

Soft sounds of lips meeting and parting fill his head, underlined by the brutal roar of blood pounding in his temples. A sigh. Rustling sheets. His hands slip off Daryl’s arms as he turns around even more, turning fully to Paul, who loses his place on Daryl’s legs. He slides down, stretching over Daryl’s entire body, without stopping the kisses. The hand in his hair holds him close.

Another touches his waist, lightly. 

Paul tries to still keep a reasonable distance between their bodies, hovering over Daryl on his forearms. Then Daryl props his right leg up on the mattress and Paul’s leg slides right between Daryl’s thighs.

Daryl gasps and Paul’s kisses become open-mouthed and hungry. And Daryl answers them equally.

Shit. Fuck goddamn.

Paul feels his resistance wavering. It crumbles like a wet sandcastle right under his fingers. Seeing Daryl like this … hearing him … it is just too much. He grinds down with a sudden snap of his hips –

_With a shocked gasp Paul jerked awake. He fumbled around blindly, heart pounding, unable to see. Where – what?_

_“Sh, calm down!”_

_Paul blinked, but the darkness was still there, only slightly lighter. A figure moved in his field of vision. This wasn’t his bed. This wasn’t even his trailer._

_“Jesus?”_

_Rosita’s face came into view, a pale oval in the dark._

_Paul’s hammering heart finally caught up with the situation and he took a deep, calming breath. Right. On the run with Rosita and Mike. “Yeah, yeah,” Paul whispered with a hoarse voice. “Sorry, just a weird dream.”_

_Rosita stared at him a moment longer and Paul was suddenly afraid that she knew. His raging hard-on pressed against the zipper of his pants._

_Then Rosita nodded, resuming to her place for watch near the window of the old house they camped in._

_Paul fell backwards on the bed. The dream already slipped from his waking mind like water through his fingers. But the feeling lingered. The longing. God, his crush on Daryl was getting out of hand. Paul threw a quick glance over to Mike, who slumbered on obviously._

_“Did Judith ever wear orange overalls?” Paul asked quietly into the night._

_“What?”, snorted Rosita. “I don’t even wanna know what you dreamed, Jesus.”_

_“No, you really don’t,” sighed Paul, rubbing his eyes._

_Sleep wouldn’t come till sunrise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry for getting your hopes up! :D
> 
> Thank you everyone, who is still reading and leaving kudos for those two idiots!


End file.
